


i'll make you a bed in the wreck of my chest

by Antimonicacid



Series: Sylvain's Therapy Log [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, Character Study, Coming Out, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, gee sylvain why do you get to have multiple poor coping mechanisms?, minor dimitri alexandre blaiyyid/sylvain jose gautier, sylvain is a homosexual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22438249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antimonicacid/pseuds/Antimonicacid
Summary: Consider Sylvain as a puzzle. He was probably one better left unsolvedAKA Sylvain stumbles his way through an attempt to be less of a bad person.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: Sylvain's Therapy Log [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804330
Comments: 32
Kudos: 255





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm temporarily putting this fic on hold bc I am tired and easily stressed. I plan on finishing it but just not sure when
> 
> Hello this is a long-ish fic that is 31% plot/sylvix and 69% sylvain character study (EYYY) There's a handful of trigger warnings for canon typical violence, references to child abuse, and some homophobia. None of it is graphic but I'll put a more detailed list of TWs at the end of each chapter.

Here’s a list. One about Sylvain. Here’s a list of things that will not change.

1.

Sylvain likes puzzles. Ever since he was a child, he’s liked riddles and brain teasers and paradoxical conundrums.

Once, his parents had gifted him a complex puzzle game they bought from a traveling merchant, and upon first sight Sylvain had fallen in love. Its shape was a pomegranate, although the fruit was foreign to him at that time. A wooden thing, spherical in shape, but broken into dozens of movable sections colored with metallic pigments.

The idea was to rotate and turn each segment like a series of locks until the colors lined up in just the right way and the whole thing cracked open. With a tiny pop it’d split into quartered parts and on the inside were tiny jewel-like beads. Or perhaps they were bead-like jewels. Sylvain didn’t really know; he just knew he loved the game.

He’d spend hours working on cracking it open. Finding new patterns and methods while assigning himself challenges to keep it fun. Solve it with your eyes closed. Now do it one handed. Crack it while holding your breath or maybe all three at once.

He could always figure it out. He could always solve the riddle. That was a consistency that he loved.

2.

And Sylvain likes consistency, at least until he gets bored of it.

Patterns and variables and expectancies and controls. That’s what allows things to make the most sense. He likes it when things come in threes. When the number of rations add up to equals. When there were just enough gold pieces to pay for all the goods.

But consistency isn’t always good, at least when it comes to things outside of children’s toys. Really consistency was almost always a bit unpleasant even if it was rarely unexpected.

Take the puzzle of Miklan for example. Miklan got disinherited from his house. Less than two years later Miklan was dead. It was a sad story, a tragic tale, but a boring one all the same. Its conclusion fell into place as easy as one two three.

It’s the unexpected that drives Sylvain crazy. It’s when the riddle starts changing shape and direction without warning. Miklan stealing the Lance of Ruin. Miklan turning into a beast. The pitying gazes of his classmates as his family history laid itself bare in the blood at his feet.

3.

Sylvain consistently and always hates a lack of control. 

* * *

There are a lot of puzzles in life. Fighting is one of them.

“He’s going to kill us all,” Felix says one day while spitting on the ground. Sylvain can’t argue. Add up the hints that make King Dimitri and the only answer to his riddle was a broken man and an army that will die. 

The fight on the bridge has them all rattled. Before this they had been battling against faceless armies for the most part. This time it was Ferdinand and Lorenz. Standing proud and ready to do battle. It was a lot, even for him. Sylvain sighs as he remembers how Dorothea is with them at the monastery. He can't even begin to imagine how she must be feeling as a traitor to the empire. 

“The professor is here now,” Sylvain says. “The professor is trying at least.”

The two of them stand in the knight’s hall while Felix goes through the motions of halfheartedly attacking a dummy. He doesn’t even pause at the professor being mentioned.

“And Dedue,” Sylvain tries again. This time Felix stutters a bit in his step, is a little off in his swing of his wooden blade. “Dedue’s back. That might–“

“Do you really think so?” Felix asks. “Do you really think Dedue will be what stops that thing.” He pronounces “thing” like it’s the bitter pit of a peach.

Sylvain stays quiet. No, he doesn’t.

“It’s war,” Sylvain says finally. Simply. Felix begins to pick up speed in his fighting. His practice sword assaults the dummy quick and hard.

“I know that,” Felix says. “We’ve been at war for five years. Longer than that if you think about it.” There will always be battles. There will always be land to kill one another over. “It’s just another fight,” he says it while shaking his hair free from his eyes.

“We were born for war,” Felix says with one final grunt before splintering his sword against the dummy’s torso.

* * *

This is a list of play. This is a list of games the children of Faerghus nobles were born to compete in.

1.

Fighting was a game. Fighting was a puzzle. Fighting was a toy that had been placed into Sylvain’s chubby hands since the time he could walk.

By the time Sylvain was eight he knew a lance more intimately than a pen.

He was good at it too, even as a child. When it came to sparring with local boys, Sylvain could usually figure out the trick behind it. Tinkle with the parts until they slid together and formed the right answer. If that didn’t work, if the puzzle was too hard for his little brain, then he had the option of just breaking it.

Matches were something that made sense to Sylvain. In them he could figure out how fast he needed to move. He could gauge when to give his blows at full strength. With practice he was even beginning to find the patterns of his crest’s ebbs and flows.

He didn’t always win, he was only eight after all and had so much to learn, but as long as there was a logic to a spar then loses didn’t bruise too bad. Sylvain could still fiddle with the timing, pick out the recurring themes, and hopefully slide the sections into their corresponding slots.

But sometimes the game was out of his control.

2.

Defeat was a part of play, but an unspoken one. There were few games within the Faerghus region that were not built upon competition, and with each victory a quiet loser.

When it was time to spar with Glenn, Sylvain was often quiet.

There was a logical conclusion one might form that since Sylvain and Glenn were about the same age (give or take half a year) then they would be matched in skill, but things don’t always add up that neatly. Glenn was quick and Glenn was strong and to top it all off Glenn was smart too. No matter how much Sylvain fiddled with the individual components and tweaked his strategy Glenn without fail would always be the winner.

That wasn’t a surprise. Like most unpleasant things it was another expectancy of life.

Glenn was a genius. Glenn was a prodigy. Glenn was a puzzle not made for someone like Sylvain to solve.

There was Dimitri too. A seemingly straight-forward and simple riddle composed primarily of blunt force trauma. Sylvain was two years Dimitri’s elder and yet Sylvain couldn’t even touch him. Dimitri who was as pretty as a girl, shy, and maybe even a little bit dumb. Dimitri who was an unstoppable force that could shatter Sylvain’s bones if the hit landed wrong. In the early days of their training, his hits often landed wrong.

Dimitri was the king’s son. Dimitri was history unfolding. Dimitri was a royal riddle, and like a sword stuck in a rock, not just anyone could solve it.

3.

Humility in the face of greatness. That was a game that Sylvain was good at losing.

Glenn and Dimitri weren’t like the others; They were the first taste of defeat to drive away vanity.

They weren’t partners for Sylvain to play with; they were riddle for him to gaze upon with awe and wonder.

There were nobles and commoners for a reason. There were crests and those without for a purpose. Presumably, one sent down by the Goddess herself, although even as a child Sylvain felt a little skeptical on that one.

The point was: the most important lesson for the children of Faerghus to learn was the acceptance of those above. The nobles were not excluded from this, and among their ranks there would always still be a hierarchy of power and strength.

Although the variables came together in even numbers, Sylvain couldn’t stop himself from feeling resentful. A consistency in his own hypocrisy. Sylvain could be a riddle on his own.

Consider Sylvain as a puzzle. He was probably one better left unsolved.

Like his favorite childhood toy, Sylvain could be twisted, interpreted, moved about, and eventually cracked open to reveal the treasure in his chest.

Spin the right tiles and ask the right questions and eventually there would be game over. A chance to look at what’s inside under the paint and glitter. Beyond the smiles, and the winks, the puzzle of Sylvain had no shining jewels and chivalrous virtue in his hidden depths. It never had. Even as a child he knew he was rotten from the inside out. His chest was already heavy with the truth that latched onto his heart. He was sure that everyone could smell the overly ripened sweetness of his words from a mile away.

There were no jewels in this one, but there was envy. There was conceit and there was anger. Sometimes it felt like it would burst out of him, Sylvain’s insatiable nature. His selfish want, not only for victory, but for more and more and more.

* * *

Sylvain sees Felix on the steps outside their dorm before Felix can spot him. He likes moments like this. The ones where he’s allowed to observe from afar without anyone noticing.

Felix tiptoes down the stairs like he has a secret, but Sylvain’s willing to bet that he doesn’t. The two of them had gone to bed late despite being expected to rise early, but that was barely two hours ago. Felix has no business sneaking around like that, but hey, neither does Sylvain.

“I might have to write you up for a detention,” Sylvain says from the top of the steps.

Felix entire body stiffens with a jolt. He’s slow to turn, his entire torso rigid, and when he faces Sylvain his face is more snarl than scowl.

“What in the hell do you want?” Felix tries to master a whisper-yell but comes out with more yell than desired.

Sylvain shrugs as he descends the stairs. “Couldn’t sleep. Was gonna take a walk. You?”

Felix scoffs. “Are you seriously going into town?” he guesses at Sylvain’s true intentions.

Sylvain doesn’t answer, and the two wind their way down the stairwell with steps that are perfectly silent. It’s a reasonable guess that Sylvain was going into town. It’s ass o’ clock, but that never stopped him before. He can’t sleep and when he can’t sleep, he improvises.

“Are you going back to the training ground?” Sylvain asks instead. “You’ll mess your body up if you overwork it.”

It’s Felix’s turn to shrug. “What else is there to do?” He asks.

“You could go to town with me?”

“Whatever girls there are at this hour of the night, aren’t the type I’m interested in meeting,” Felix says and has the audacity to flip his loose ponytail back like a stuck up teenager. “You could come train with me.”

He doesn’t phrase it like a question, nor as an invitation, but simply a fact. Sylvain is able to train with him. That’s something Sylvain can do.

“Like I said, you’ll ruin your body if you don’t let it rest.” They’ve reached the bottom of the steps by then and are now almost at the hall’s entrance to the outdoors.

“I can’t sleep,” Felix says.

“Me neither,” Sylvain agrees.

“Let’s go on a walk.”

And so, they do. They walk past the greenhouse, away from the pond, and beyond the market. They don’t have much to say, or at the very least, they don’t have much they’re willing to share at the moment. They wander instead. They don’t stop to pet the horses. They continue past the courtyards and gazebo. They meander without aim until their feet naturally bring them to the grass in front of the Blue Lions classroom.

Felix sits at the table he once claimed during their academy years. He looks at home in it and it makes Sylvain smile. Sylvain props his feet up when he sits, and leans his chair back dangerously far.

“So, Mr. Fraldarius,” Sylvain says with a formal voice. “If you would, please explain to the class the exact algorithm for calculating the fire to wind ratio when dispatching a fireball with the assumption that the enemy is facing east with the wind coming in at 55 kilommeters per hour from the north.”

Felix nods along as Sylvain poses the question to him. He pretends to write some calculations on an imaginary piece of paper for a second. His tongue is stuck out in faux concentration and his eyes deadly serious.

With his head stooped down Sylvain can make out the tiny black curls on the base of Felix’s neck. A few of the many stragglers that refuse to conform to the confines of his hasty ponytail.

“Alright,” Felix slaps his hand down on the table. “I think I’ve solved it. If my calculations are correct, then the answer is…” 

Felix raises both his hands into a double middle finger salute. “Go fuck yourself.”

Sylvain laughs at the stupid joke. Hard enough that he almost knocks his chair off balance as Felix looks pleased.

“See,” Sylvain says. “And you wanted to go beat up some dummies or whatever.”

“Yeah,” Felix says. “Who knew I already had a dummy right here.”

Eventually Sylvain’s snickers fade away and the two sit in companionable silence. Like this Sylvain can feel a familiar heaviness drift across his eyelids. He’s tired. He’s always tired nowadays, and yet he still can’t sleep.

“I keep,” Felix’s voice tugs him out of his drowsiness.

Sylvain turns to him and sees that Felix is looking away. Felix is like that sometimes. He’ll have something he wants to say, but struggles to find the space to do so. Sylvain’s good at waiting quietly by his side until he manages it. 

Felix is staring at a seat near the front of the class. The spot Dimitri once sat. He’s trying to talk without having to face the shame of eye contact. “I keep having dreams,” Felix admits.

“Yeah. Sleep usually comes with them,” Sylvain says and Felix’s lip twitches in displeasure. He wants Felix to continue though, and he nudges him to go on. “Dreams about what?” He’s trying to make his voice mimic the gentleness of the late night’s air. 

Dreams are never fun. Sylvain knows this. Felix knows this. Everyone in this war knows this. Felix talks anyways.

“Whatever. The usual. Everybody’s dead. The battlefield goes on forever. Ghosts on horses cheer as soldiers drop.” Felix scratches his thumbnail across the table’s varnish. He’s done staring at the vacant chair to the front of the classroom now. He focuses his sights on the wood top and nothing else.

“And Glenn is there too,” Felix says so quietly that Glenn’s name barely forms on his lips. “Glenn’s there. With the horses and the ghosts. He’s there cheering as the soldiers die. Die like true knights.”

It’s shockingly vulnerable. Felix’s words sap the air out of the room and leave barely enough space for Sylvain and him to exist in. Even though Sylvain is the one that invited it on, he still doesn’t know how to handle his friend’s emotions laid bare in the palm of his hands.

Maybe when they were kids Sylvain would have an answer to bad dreams, but when they were kids, nightmares were different beasts altogether.

“You still dream about Glenn,” Sylvain doesn’t phrase it as a question. It’s just a fact. It’s just a statement.

“I guess. Do you?” Felix asks and this time he looks at Sylvain. It’s rare to see Felix’s face so plainly without anger contorting his expression. He cocks his head slightly, but his eye contact is fierce and unbreakable. It holds Sylvain there, making it so he has nothing to do but think about Felix’s voice and Felix’s stare.

Nighttime is weird. It doesn’t seem to exist in the same way as the rest of their days. Felix’s hair isn’t done up in the same stupidly messy bun as usual. It hangs from a much looser tie and strands of black frame his face in sharp contrast to his moon washed skin. When Felix bites his lip in the same nervous habit he’s always had, Sylvain can’t help but think about how he could just as easily be a forgotten deity trapping him there if not for the dark bruising under his eyes.

It’s difficult for Sylvain to place them in the present. A lazy ponytail. Pieces of hair that curl at the base of his neck and fall into his eyes. It’s the same hair Felix would wear as a child. It’s the same search for comfort he would pull from Sylvain when they were kids and Felix was scared of monsters lurking in the dark of alleyways.

Sylvain feels like he’s outside of time and he doesn’t know if he likes that. He doesn’t know what rules he’s expected to play by in this midnight limbo. When they were kids he would have reassured him kindly. He would’ve shared some of his own nightmares, albeit selectively. He knew the answer to that riddle, but he doesn’t know it now. 

He figures he’ll just break it instead.

“I don’t dream that much,” Sylvain watches Felix deflate at his words. Even though that feels awful enough on its own, he can’t stop the rotten words bubbling out of his chest. “Honestly, I try to only dream about girls with full lips and perky breast. Anyone else is a nightmare to me.” 

He’s never been good at solving the puzzle of where his own anger stems from.

* * *

Here’s a list of responses Sylvain wishes he could say whenever he accidentally acts like an asshole.

1.

“Sorry, sometimes I get possessed by a foreign God who has an uncontrollable wrath towards humanity. It demands periodic sacrifices in the form of broken relationships. Ask the professor about it. They know.”

2.

“Sorry, I meant to be a nice person today, but I forgot. I keep losing my planner which reminds me to act like a normal human being and it really just throws my whole schedule off. We’ll be back on track after a nap and probably some pretzels.”

3.

“Sorry, I forgot to take an antacid after lunch. All that inner criticism really does a number on a guy’s stomach and I accidentally burped up being a dickhead. Ugh. Tastes like dick. I’ll go back to directing my animosity inwards where it belongs instead of vomiting it all over the nearest friend who has the audacity to ask me how my day is going.”

* * *

Sylvain isn’t surprised when Felix stalks away and only leaves behind a few choice insults as a parting gift.

Sylvain makes sure he can’t hear his angry footsteps anymore before thumping his forehead hard against the tabletop.

“Stupid stupid stupid,” Sylvain mumbles into the table like it’s a spell to cure him. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He just knows that his chest is bubbling up. That something in his lungs feels swollen and that his whole body is electric. Sylvain can’t tell if he wants to yell at someone or hit someone or both. He groans into the table and messes his hair up with both hands.

“Stupid stupid stupid,” he repeats for good measure. It doesn’t stop his body from feeling all wrong.

Sylvain stands up fast enough that his chair clatters to the ground. He looks across the room to the vacancy Felix was focused on before. Dimitri’s old seat. Another throne for ghosts.

A walk. Sylvain was going to go on a walk. That wasn’t a lie earlier, it was his actual plan for the night. Pace the perimeter of Garreg Mach until he had beat his footprints into the ground. Do it enough times so that he could barely stand long enough to drag himself back to bed.

Sylvain begins his solitary trek.

He was going into town less nowadays. He’d been cooling it with the late-night fraternizing since the war had kicked off. Shockingly, a continent-wide war demanded near constant attention, especially when your house lays at the border of another country.

The last five years have kept Sylvain busy. He doesn’t have time to chase after girls. He doesn’t have time for the frivolities of youth.

Sylvain is the son of Gautier. Sylvain is the wielder of The Lance of Ruin. Sylvain is what stands between Faerghus and an invasion from Sreng.

He doesn’t have time for picking up girls in town. He doesn’t have time for examining the way his heart clenches in a sickening manner whenever he’s alone with Felix. He doesn’t have time for dreams.

In no world does Sylvain have time for dreams. He’d rather keep the secrets of his unconscious to himself.

* * *

Here’s a list of secrets that eat Sylvain up at night.

1.

There were moments in practice that Sylvain would try and hit Glenn harder than he was instructed. Partially because strength was the only leg up he had on him. Mainly because by the end of practice Sylvain was always more irritated than he’d care to be.

He was pretty sure Glenn could tell. He’d dodge instead of parrying. He’d take his steps just that much faster. He’d make sure to hit Sylvain back twice.

“Good fight,” Glenn would say and offer his hand after sweeping Sylvain off his feet.

“Always is,” Sylvain’s response was cheerful when he’d accept the outstretched hand, even as he squeezed as hard as he could.

2.

When he was twelve Sylvain had run the numbers and came to the conclusion that he was nobody’s number one. To an outsider that might sound more self-deprecating than he intended which is why he kept it to himself. It made sense though, and the progression of the narrative followed each step as logically as ever.

Felix and Glenn loved each other more than they could ever say, but that was assumed. Brothers–actual real and caring brothers–were like that. Even with the bickering. Even with the petty rivalries and competition. So, take that out of the equation. Place their favoritism on a separate field of familial bond that Sylvain had somehow been denied.

Glenn’s loyalty laid with Dimitri. It was untouchable and absolute. Glenn’s favoritism, however, was always geared towards Ingrid, and the same was true for her.

Felix’s favorite was Dimitri, even if he wouldn’t admit it. Past the loyalty that was born into the Fraldarius bloodline was just an unquestioning, unfiltered admiration Felix could only direct wholeheartedly at Dimitri. That also tracked. Felix had practically been born knowing Dimitri and their family’s connection ran deeper than any other in Faerghus. Even Sylvain’s own affluent breeding was on the outskirts. Hell, Sylvain was pretty sure Felix had met Dimitri before Glenn met his bride to be.

And then for Dimitri? He just favored Glenn. That was simple. There was no big reason. Glenn was just like that. Glenn was just everything.

It was an easy pattern to trace, but Sylvain was an expert at losing games of humility.

3.

After The Tragedy of Duscur, Sylvain would have nightmares for months on end. Fire burning. Heads rolling. The sudden and stark absence of life. He had read the reports and knew enough of the events to allow his imagination to fill in the blanks. He knew the time, the numbers killed, the burns on Dimitri’s skin, and the shape of a dozen closed coffin funerals that were missing bodies. That was more than enough to let his subconscious play with the details.

The floor would be sticky with gallons of blackened blood, spilled by its victims, and cooked by the fires. The smoke would be awful. Easily the worst stench any of the younger, less experienced knights had ever encountered.

And the sound. Cacophonic. Unlike anything else in the world. He couldn’t imagine what it would be, so in his dreams it was just a thrumming, loathsome noise that buried itself deep into his eardrums and made a home in the wreckage.

This was all conjecture, of course. He wasn’t present for any of this. He wasn’t involved, not even indirectly and barely by association. It felt silly to bring something like that up to Ingrid or Felix who walked on the balls of their feet trying to outrun a phantom chokehold.

That didn’t take away the catastrophe from his nightmares. It didn’t stop him from dreaming that he was the one pushing a lance through Glenn’s chest. That he was the one shoving Glenn into the flames. That he was the one who pulled Glenn’s body apart to the point there weren’t enough pieces to bring home. A jealous, wretched ending. A punishment for Sylvain’s childish envy.

There was a before and there was an after. There was a time when Sylvain could sleep through the night without waking up in cold sweats and heart palpitations, and then there was the rest.

He didn’t like to talk about it.

* * *

Felix doesn’t stay mad at him for too long. Or maybe he does but decides to just not talk about it. It’s hard to keep grudges during a war and even Felix has his limits.

“I want to practice that again,” Felix says for probably the fifth time that session after knocking the practice lance from Sylvain’s hands. Despite his urging, Felix is visibly tired. He’s sweaty enough that he’s forced to remove his weird asymmetrical coat and is fighting in his equally oddly designed black turtleneck. At the very least, Sylvain’s a fan of Felix’s exposed arms.

Still, Sylvain is just as tired if not more so and he whines to let it be known. “We got it already. Come on, let’s take a break,” he tries to reason with him.

Felix lifts the corner of his lip up in disgust. “Tired already? Pitiful. That’s what you get for not training properly. Now come on,” he kicks Sylvain’s lance towards him. “Again. Your form is still sloppy.”

Sylvain rolls his eyes while grabbing the weapon. “My apologies. I’ll be sure to tidy it up all neat for you. Would you like a bow while I’m at it?”

Felix doesn’t laugh. He comes at Sylvain the moment he has an almost secure grip on the lance. Sylvain curses and deflects as best he can, but Felix has already fought this same fight several times that day and expects it.

Sylvain jabs at him in quick swift strikes that are deftly dodged. The moment Felix goes on the counterattack is what Sylvain’s waiting for. Just like they practiced Sylvain rushes at him instead of dodging away to swat the sword from Felix’s grasp.

It doesn’t work. Felix does some sort of twist with his wrist while stepping to the right and before he knows what’s happening Sylvain’s lance is on the ground.

“Let’s do it again,” Felix says while trying to keep the panting out of his breath.

“Screw you,” Sylvain replies and collapses on the ground in a stubborn, tired heap.

Felix sucks his teeth at him and not so lightly kicks at his form. “Get up. There’s no naps in war,” Felix says.

“I’m dead,” Sylvain replies simply. “Look, good job! You killed me and now I’m a corpse who is napping. Congratulations, you’ve won the war!” Sylvain sprawls all his limbs out as far as they can go. He can see his chest rising and falling as he pants, and he can feel the sweat soaking through every layer of clothes he has on.

“Whatever,” Felix says and sits next to him. “Five minutes and then I’m resurrecting your zombie butt.”

Sylvain groans in what’s either thanks or mocking horror. “You lay down too. Floor cold and comfy.”

“Floor dirty,” Felix refuses and continues sitting ruler straight, but Sylvain won’t let up. He pulls hard on his arm, so Felix can fall in a heap on top of him. “Hey!” Felix protests, but he’s tired enough that he can’t do much more than squirm in anger.

“See,” Sylvain says. “Floor comfy.” He pats Felix lovingly on his damp, messy hair.

“I’m not on the floor I’m on your humongous chest,” Felix says with his voice a bit muffled by said humongous chest.

“Sylvain comfy?” Sylvain asks.

There’s quiet. “Maybe…” Felix agrees reluctantly. “Five minutes,” he turns his head so he’s facing Sylvain directly. “Then it’s back to practice. I can’t have you dying on the battlefield out there just because you can’t master a simple fucking deflection.” He’s so serious as he scolds him. Even with his face flushed red from exertion. Even with his hair plastered to his forehead.

Sylvain would bet his left testicle that this self-righteous, mildly wrecked Felix is identical to a post-sex Felix. Maybe with his eyes a little more hazy. Maybe with his lips a little more bruised.

Sylvain can already feel the guilt rotting in his chest from the thought. He rolls his head back so he’s staring at the ceiling of the knight’s hall instead. He counts the exposed beams and is agitated when they come out to an odd number.

Felix doesn’t move from laying on top of him even though their combined body heat is near insufferable. He lays his cheek on Sylvain’s chest, stripped of armor long ago, with barely a thin wet shirt to separate the two.

He can feel Felix’s breath as it evens out.

Sylvain makes a list. Things that make him want to scream right now:

  1. His whole body hurts. Every muscle. Every inch of skin. Sylvain wants to throw himself into the pond and scream until the soreness fades away into the cold black, depths.
  2. It was barely a few weeks ago that they took the bridge for The Kingdom. It was barely a month ago since they’ve fought their former classmates. Now they’re training harder than ever before to prepare to fight more of them. To prepare to kill more of them. Sylvain wants to hide away in his room and shout until the war is over.
  3. Felix. Full stop. Just Felix. Sylvain wants to yell until Felix covers his mouth and tells him to shut up. He wants Felix to press his lips to his and swallow Sylvain’s cry whole.



Sylvain counts the cracks in the ceiling and hopes they don’t come out odd.

Five minutes pass before Felix slaps him hard on the chest. “Let’s do it three more times and see if you can manage to be less of a screw up.”

Sylvain groans. “You’re trying to kill me. I get your ploy now. You’re trying to murder me.”

Felix pushes off of his chest to stand up suddenly. He stretches his sore muscles out, his shirt riding up his belly just a tiny bit, before resting an agitated hand on his hip.

“For once in your life take something seriously, Sylvain.” He’s not smiling anymore and Sylvain closes his eyes, feeling guilty. 

“You cannot die at Gronder field,” Felix says with a voice full of harsh memories. “None of us can, but especially not you.”

“Okay. I’m taking it seriously. Let’s practice it five more times and then I’ll definitely get it.” Unfortunately, Sylvain is a weak man and he doesn’t know how to say no when Felix talks like that. Felix’s face softens and an echo of a smile threatens to tug at the edges of his lips.

But when Sylvain goes to stand his entire body crackles and pops. “ON THE GODDESS I SWEAR-“ Sylvain yells out in pain as his entire body revolts against him as if he was suddenly so much older than his twenty four years of age. 

“Okay,” Felix says while pressing his lips thin to not smile. “Okay, we can stop for today and–“ He covers his mouth to hold back from laughing in Sylvain’s agonized face.

“Why do you hate me,” Sylvain whines as he struggles to keep standing. “Is this funny, Felix? Am I a joke to you?”

Felix laughs in reply. He can’t keep it inside and Sylvain smiles too at the charming way Felix covers his mouth and snickers.

* * *

This is a list of firsts. This is a list of heartbreaks.

1.

The first girl Sylvain fell for used to hide her smile. She would giggle at him with her hands shielding her mouth from his curious gaze, and to him it sounded better than any choir.

Sylvain was six, and he loved the attention, and to him that meant he loved her too. He would toss berries high into the air and catch them in his mouth so she would clap and ask for more. He would cartwheel along the dirt street of the market, and she would ooh and gasp when he’d barely avoid knocking into her father’s fruit stand at the last minute.

Her favorite was Sylvain’s attempts at juggling. Mostly because he was bad at it. He’d pick three fruits and throw them higher than fruit should go. Each time he assured her that he would get it this try, and each time they’d fall. They’d splatter at his feet or on his head leaving him dripping in juice.

Without fail the girl would always laugh.

Bashfully. Shyly. She’d turn away to cover her mouth, and Sylvain would ask what she was laughing about while he still had tomato on his face. She’d laugh more until her dimples showed and she couldn’t hold back anymore. She’d laugh until her smile stretched wide with its two missing front teeth, and every time Sylvain was delighted.

2.

The first time Sylvain got discipline was when his brother complained about his antics at the market.

“He keeps wasting his allowance and throwing food on the ground,” Miklan would whine. “All ‘cuz of that commoner’s daughter. He won’t stop messing around with that commoner’s daughter.”

And his parents were oh so very disappointed.

3.

The first time Sylvain broke a girl’s heart wasn’t a singular event, but a slow, drawn out process. It started with staying quiet while Miklan picked out fruit from the neighboring stand. Continued on when Sylvain walked past her with his eyes down and his hands stuffed in his pockets. 

Then there was the next week when he wouldn’t look her way even while she waved. 

Then there was the next time when he pretended to not see her purposefully ignoring him as well.

Until there was an end. The expected, logical conclusion. The one where he walked past her one more time, but he couldn’t keep his eyes on the dirt road. He peered at her and she stared back, unflinching in her gaze and not allowing him to break free. It was a sluggardly march, his feet had turned to lead, and the road became like sand as he was trapped guilty in her glare.

Funny how she was always fast to hide her smile away but seemed to have no reservations with frowning openly.

* * *

Gronder Field happens. Gronder Field happens, but it doesn’t feel quite real.

Sylvain can remember parts of it. He can remember fire. He can remember yelling. Fighting. The sight of Edelgard’s imposing red figure, striking in the distance, as she frowned harshly at the tragedy unfolding.

He remembers Bernadetta standing at the center, and then he remembers her not being there any longer. He remembers the sting of a crest beast’s poison. He remembers someone falling, someone dying from another house, from another side of the war–the wrong side of the war–but he can’t remember who. He can’t remember who killed them.

Bits and pieces of colorful action and deafening noise interspersed with blanks stretches. He can remember that he did his job right. He can remember that he was a good soldier. He can’t really remember in what way.

And he remembers when Rodrigue died.

Not the actual death. No, that’s sucked into the same white void with the rest of the battle.

He can remember Felix’s face. He can remember the way the light in his eyes changed. He can remember the way he gripped Sylvain’s arm as he watched his father died.

* * *

What about another list? What about something fun? Here’s a list of firsts. Here’s a list of romance.

1.

Sylvain gets his first girlfriend when he’s eleven and it’s an exciting event for everyone involved.

“I have a girlfriend now,” Sylvain said.

“Why?” Felix asked.

“What’s wrong with her?” Ingrid added on.

“May the Goddess heal her soul and let her see the light of ‘anybody but Sylvain,” Glenn sent a prayer up.

“You can’t date girls,” Dimitri covered his mouth in horror. “That’s illegal.” Both his eyes widened at the scandal. Was there supposed to be two there? 

Glenn frowned, distracted by Dimitri’s horror. “Why would it be illegal?”

“Because he’s twelve!”

“Eleven,” Sylvain corrected cheerfully.

“Wait,” Glenn continued perplexed. “Dimitri, what do you think dating is?”

“A commitment.”

In the background Felix gagged

“You can’t date when you’re eleven!” Dimitri defended his stance with a stomp of his foot. His child’s size shoe left no imprint on the ground, but if there was a skull there it would have been crushed. “Have some class, please.”

Sylvain rolled his eyes. “How does it feel to be a sixty-year-old man stuck in the body of an eight-year-old?” He thought he asked that, but he wasn’t sure if he pronounced it as “sixty-year-old man” or if he flubbed up and said “ghastly beast” instead.

“I think,” Ingrid interjected so clearly everything was fine, “Dimitri’s right. You should wait until you’re thirteen at the very least.”

“You’re engaged!” Felix yelled out incredulous.

“Shut up!” Glenn yelled back because the only thing in the world that made Glenn flustered was mentioning his future wedding.

Sylvain took a casual step back to narrowly avoid Felix running to try and kick Glenn in the head. He fell instead and his brother laughed. It was hard to kick ghosts. They’re always moving.

“Hey,” Sylvain said and elbowed Dimitri in his side and hoped the blood of Rodrigue wouldn’t ruin his shirt. “She has a sister, ya know, in case you ever wanna double date.”

2.

And then Sylvain has his first break up almost two weeks later. It was a quiet affair without too many dramatics.

Sylvain came home one day to his mother waiting at the entrance. “Do you intend to marry this girl?” She asked.

Sylvain shrugged and said probably not. In less than a decade there will be a war that rips this country apart. He won’t have time for romance in between all the battles and bloodshed and betrayals. Writing to her from camp would be hard too, not to mention the possibility that she may end up on the wrong side of war. Goddess knows it would suck to have to kill his wife. Although, he was pretty sure he’d grow bored of her by then.

“I don’t like her that much, ma,” Sylvain answered honestly. “She won’t play tag with the rest of us.”

His mother nodded and placed a quick kiss on his forehead. “Good boy. I’ll let her father know.”

And then Sylvain no longer had a girlfriend. Nothing complicated about it.

3.

The first time Sylvain felt his pulse race in a way it never had was when he was barely thirteen.

“Can I hold your hand?” Felix asked once when he was eleven and far too old to be holding the hands of other boys.

“Sure,” Sylvain answered despite knowing better than to indulge him.

They were returning from the market. His parents had instructed them to pick up a few books and trinkets for them, and in return they could buy themselves some pastries. They of course were thrilled by the offer. Even more so when they learned the adventure would be only the two of them.

Sylvain had already been to the market near his house a million times. He let Felix know that too. That he was an expert and could always be relied on.

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon and Sylvain knew that that meant it was time to start night watch. They had to keep the imperial soldiers away or else someone could get hurt.

“Your mom said we’re eating something spicy tonight,” Felix said excitedly while squeezing Sylvain’s palm.

“She always says it’ll be spicy, but it never is,” Sylvain squeezed his hand back while his other arm swung his basket of trinkets and axes and books and blood.

“Your place kinda sucks,” Felix said honestly. Sylvain thought that was unfair. There was a war going on. Everywhere sucked. “Miklan always ruins the games and your parents never have anything fun to eat.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain nodded. “I’ll see if I can get my dad to let me spend a few weeks at yours this summer. He likes Rodrigue. I bet if Rodrigue asks he’ll let me go,” Sylvain said, but that didn’t make any sense. Rodrigue was dead. He can’t get a dead man to ask his dad for favors, it’ll just piss him off.

Felix tightened his hold on Sylvain’s hand while walking past one of the darker alleyways. What could Felix be afraid of? A robber? There were bigger problems at hand. There was a war! There were dead fathers! There was blood seeping into the books his mother asked him to bring home to her. Why did he put even put the spilled blood in the same basket in the first place? 

Goddess, what could Felix be afraid of now? Didn’t he know that everything bad that could happen already has?

“Hey, hey,” Sylvain soothed him. “I already told you that Miklan made up that story about the sewer monsters. He’s just a dickhead,” Sylvain felt his chest warm up as Felix laughed at his cursing.

“Sewer monsters aren’t real, obviously,” Felix said with a roll of his big childish eyes. No eyebags. Just innocence. “If they were, I’d rip their heads off,” Felix said. “No, I’d slice them off. That’d be way cooler.”

Sylvain grinned as Felix pulled him along by his hand back to his home. This was the first time Sylvain had ever thought that he couldn’t live without someone.

* * *

“I think I have a fever,” Sylvain says on the trek back to Garreg Mach.

Ingrid looks at him incredulously. “Now isn’t the time to joke,” she warns him in a tone that has no ice, just fatigue.

“No, I’m serious,” Sylvain stops to lean against a tree. Up ahead most of the class continues walking without notice. It’s a ghost parade with the professor leading the charge and Dimitri’s shambling corpse following close behind. Only the slow walkers are back here with him. Felix isn’t. Sylvain is incredibly grateful that Felix isn’t.

“Sylvain,” Mercedes says in her most gentle of voices. She presses both her hands against his face and neck, and he leans into the cool touch. “No, Ingrid. He’s right. Sylvain, do you have any wounds that need tending to?”

Sylvain snorts. “We’re all made up of wounds on wounds on wounds.”

“Goddess above,” Ingrid sighs utterly exhausted.

“I can get the professor and–“ Mercedes starts but Sylvain grabs her arm fast enough that he almost faints.

“No. Goddess, no. There’s just, shit, Mercedes, there’s so much going on always.”

Mercedes frowns and Sylvain feels bad. He hates it when she looks upset. He hates it more when it’s his fault.

“You’re worried about your friends, aren’t you?” She asks.

Sylvain doesn’t say anything. Next to him he feels Ingrid shaking slightly. “Oh, look at the two of you,” Mercedes says completely heartbroken. “I’m sorry. So much is happening and, well, I can’t fix most of it,” she says honestly. “But I can at least help with this part,” and with that she starts bossing them around.

She makes Ingrid help Sylvain climb up on to one of the less exhausted horses, and then she has Ingrid follow him up there as well. “Please make sure he doesn’t fall and get a concussion,” she says while Ingrid pouts at the logic of her demand.

Now off his feet Sylvain isn’t exactly resting, but it’s still a bit better. He must have gotten healed too many times in battle. His body was held together, but exhausted from the effort. He lays his head on the mare’s neck and Ingrid brushes the hair out of his eyes. He realizes that he’s sweating far more than he thought.

“Syl,” Ingrid says in a soft tone. It’s a voice she rarely uses and each time it kicks Sylvain straight in the chest. He squirms away with guilt eating away at his organs.

“Sorry,” Sylvain says.

He thinks he can hear Mercedes and Ingrid mouthing words at each other, but he doesn’t care enough to try and figure it out.

Mercedes presses some herbs into his mouth. They taste like a mixture of peppermint and farts. “What are you sorry for, Sylvain?” Mercedes asks.

“Sorry,” Sylvain mumbles against the horse’s neck again. Sorry for causing trouble. Sorry for making the after battle all about me. Sorry for killing our friends. Sorry for loving Felix in all the wrong ways. Sorry that I tricked you into wanting to take care of me. Sorry for making you half carry me home. Sorry for being selfish. Sorry for being rotten. 

He can’t work up the energy to say all of that though. He settles for “Sorry,” mumbled. Heartfelt and apologetic. “Sorry.”

* * *

This is a list of times Sylvain has apologized.

1.

That time Sylvain was fifteen and Ingrid wouldn’t stop getting on his nerves. Out of all of the friends, even counting Glenn, Sylvain was the one Ingrid spent the most time with. Usually it was to scold him even though she was two years younger. Often to fix his mistakes.

If he was being truthful, he simply adored her.

But also, if he was being truthful, sometimes she could be a real pain.

“I don’t know how many times I have to repeat myself,” Ingrid repeated herself for the fifth time. “It’s just simple courtesy and an easy enough procedure, okay?”

Sylvain gave a vague grunt in her direction. Normally he could take her lectures like a champ, but today he was tired, and this had been going on for the last twenty minutes. He was trying to finish cleaning up the practice area as quickly as possible so he could escape, but every chore he did had to be scrutinized. Every weapon he polished was somehow wrong. Apparently, he couldn’t even sweep right! Amazing!

“So, you agree that it’s easy? Or are you just grunting for fun?”

“Come on, Ingrid,” Sylvain said with a shake of his head to no avail.

“Because I don’t think I can break it down in more simple terms. Unless you want me to start talking to you like you’re five years old, Sylvain. Do you want me to talk to you like you’re a five-year-old, Sylvain?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he answered while finishing the polish on the last lance. He went to put it back with the other lances, ready to be free, but Ingrid smacked his hand away.

“Sylvain! That’s the silver lance. That’s the expensive lance. Fancy lances don’t go to bed with the training tools. Fancy lances go to bed with the fancy tools,” she explained to him as if he was two years old.

And then he felt it. A bad churning in his stomach. An ugly bruising spreading rapidly underneath the skin in his chest. For a second it felt like a slow, sick ache, but then without warning it bubbled up. Multiplied ten-fold until it felt like sound was bursting out of his throat without his permission or warning.

“Dammit, Ingrid!” he slammed the lance into the others. “I know what the fuck I’m doing!” Sylvain yelled over the sound of metal clattering to the floor.

And as fast as it came, the anger dissipated. Poof. Gone without a trace of the sudden, blinding fury that threatened to rip him apart from the inside out.

It was just him and Ingrid standing shell-shocked next to a pile of fallen lances and echoing words.

“Shit,” Sylvain reacted first. “Ingrid, I’m–“ he tripped over his tongue as he tried to fumble an apology out. He wanted to reach out to her, but faster than she could react he pulled his hand back to cover his mouth as if he were afraid that his touch would burn her. “Shit, Ingrid I’m so, so sor–“

“No, no, it’s fine,” she cut him off with a shake of her head. She stooped to start picking up the equipment. “I was being annoying. I shouldn’t have kept pushing at you,” she said while dusting off one of the lances. She wouldn’t meet his eye though. He could hear a tightness in her voice.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain said anyways. Where there was a swelling before, was a distinct tightness now. He felt like his skin was shrinking in around him. Ingrid wouldn’t meet his eye, but he could see the way her jaw clenched. He could see the way she was more careless in shoving the equipment away.

Sylvain was pretty sure his lungs were collapsing. “Ingrid, I’m–“

“Look, Sylvain,” Ingrid snapped at him. “I’m sorry I pissed you off, but I’m fine, okay? You don’t have to do some dumb apology circuit like I’m some stupid little girl that you–“ she looked up at him. Her face was red, flushed with embarrassment and her eyes a bit watery, but otherwise fine. At that moment as she took in his appearance, she mainly looked confused. “Hey,” she said softly. “Sylvain?”

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain choked out from his rapidly dwindling air supply. “I’m sorry, Ingrid, I’m so–“ his apology caught in his throat.

“Hey hey hey,” Ingrid rushed up and grabbed his arm. His spine stiffened but he didn’t pull away. “Come on, Syl,” she said bewildered at the reversal of roles.

This was the most frazzled Ingrid’s ever been around him. Her hands fluttered uselessly looking for a way to help. She pushed her knuckles against his cheek with a rough gentleness. It was their usual joking manner, but this time he did flinch. She bit her lip anxiously in response.

“Syl,” she pulled on his arm. “Come on, let’s sit down for a bit.” She coaxed him into a sitting position on the floor with her. As soon as they were down Sylvain put his head between his knees and worked on trying to figure out breathing.

His shoulders were shaking as Ingrid rubbed clumsy circles on his back. “Come on, I’m annoying!” She chattered with a forced upbeat tone. “Felix yells at me all the time, and he never cries about it,” she tried to defuse the situation, but it only reinforced his panic.

She shouldn’t be comforting him. He’s the one that yelled at her. He’s the one that lost control. He’s almost a foot taller than her by now that must be terrifying. She must be terrified. Goddess above, Ingrid must be terrified of him. 

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain choked on a sob as he repeated the only thing he could think of to make it better. “I’m so sorry. Ingrid, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, Ingrid I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m-”

“Shh,” she stayed even though she knew nothing about being nurturing. “Come on, Syl. It’s okay. Friends get mad sometimes. It’s okay. You’re allowed to get mad. You know that, right Syl? You’re allowed to get mad. It’s okay. Shh. Come on. It’s okay.”

2.

There was the time Sylvain couldn’t stop making bad jokes.

“There’s a trick to getting girls, ya know,” Sylvain told Felix one day.

It was a time before war. The weather was beginning to go crisp in the way Sylvain preferred, and the professor was still finding their footing with their class. The two sat at the end of the dock with their lunch. Sylvain watched the ripple of the pond ahead and tried to pick out shadows of potential fish.

Felix looked over at him in that stealthy, shielded way he had. With his head ducked down and a glare forming behind his eyes as he chewed over Sylvain’s words. “Okay,” he kept his tone a careful neutrality.

“Take notes, I don’t give out my sage wisdom to just anyone,” Sylvain kept his tone light, but even on his tongue it felt like the wrong type of sweet. He looked ahead and tried not to think about Felix looking at him. “The trick is to be just a little bit of a bad person,” he told him.

Felix fidgeted by his side. Sylvain continued looking out at the water and ignoring the way eyes bore into his profile. 

He felt like he should stop talking. He felt like Felix wanted him to stop talking. He couldn’t stop it. The way his chest kept overflowing with gooey, sticky words.

“It’s the bad boy aspect,” Sylvain continued. “Well, bad person. Bad boy, bad person who can tell the difference. My point is,” he said and turned to grin wide at Felix’s purposefully neutral face. “I’m an expert at being just the right amount of rotten.”

Felix frowned and picked at the sweet bun he didn’t like. This time he looked away from Sylvain’s blank, unfocused gaze.

Sylvain pouted. “Come on, Felix,” he whined. “I was just joking.”

Felix huffed and pulled his knees to his chest.

“You don’t gotta be so sensitive all the time,” more rotten words fell out from behind his perfect smiling teeth.

“I don’t like it when you joke like that,” Felix said with far too much feeling.

Sylvain’s face fell. Whatever spoiled desire to wreck and ruin was quickly eaten up by guilt instead.

“Shit, man,” Sylvain said and scooched closer to him. “Sorry.” He bumped his shoulder in Felix’s, but Felix only turned his head away. “Seriously, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s up with me today,” Sylvain said.

Felix scoffed.

“No, really!” Sylvain gave a forced laughed. “I probably just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Or maybe I’m going stir crazy. Fuck if I know.”

“Sylvain,” Felix said his name and Sylvain couldn’t tell if it was with anger or pity.

“I’m sorry I called you sensitive. That wasn’t cool,” he continued as if Felix hadn’t said anything. “I’ll be less of a dick from now on, okay?”

“Sylvain,” Felix said again, but this time he grabbed Sylvain by the jaw. He held him still and forced him to maintain eye contact.

“What?” Sylvain asked with his words coming out a little muffled. “Are you gonna give me a kiss? There are better ways, ya know.”

“Miklan’s dead,” Felix said simply. Bluntly. Without any room to run from the truth. “Miklan’s dead,” he said it again and Sylvain clenched his jaw and tried to look away, but Felix wouldn’t let him.

Did Felix think he didn’t know that? Did Felix think he had forgotten? It had only been two days, but there’s no use dwelling on the past. Sylvain didn’t understand Felix. Sylvain wanted to be able to turn his head away as he felt his face start to burn from a pricking at the edge of his eyes.

Felix’s face softened. He didn’t let Sylvain go, not all the way, but instead of holding onto his jaw, Felix cupped it.

“Sylvain,” Felix said again in a subdued tone Sylvain’s not sure he’d ever heard from him before. His thumb grazed over his skin. Sylvain couldn’t remember the last time Felix had been so soft with him. One would think he was wiping away dew from grass, not brushing the light bunch of freckles on Sylvain’s cheek.

Pitying eyes. A low voice. Felix pursed his lips in such a pretty way as he repeated once more: “Miklan’s dead.”

Sylvain could feel his skin burning, but only the places that Felix was touching. He grimaced, opened his mouth to say something, but found nothing inside. Not even rotten words. Not even anger. Yet, his skin was still burning.

Sylvain felt panicked, and Felix crinkled his brow in worry for a second. Sylvain tried to connect the pieces in his head. Figure out the right answer to his sentence or the proper way to crack him open, but his head just felt jumbled and his chest a tight mess. In absence of reason Sylvain reacted the best way he knew how as he rushed forward to place a kiss on Felix’s lips.

It wasn’t a good one. It wasn’t a kiss that Sylvain felt best exemplified his skill. He pushed too hard and their teeth knocked together. He tried to grab at Felix’s waist or his arm or anything to ground him, but his fingers were clumsy and shook.

Sylvain wanted to kiss Felix right. He wanted to kiss him in a way that meant something. He wanted to love Felix the right way. He didn’t think this was the right way.

In the moment, Sylvain wanted to hurt himself more than he wanted to love Felix right.

Sylvain pulled back. Fast enough that Felix was still processing the sudden onslaught of lips against his.

“Sorry,” Sylvain said, somehow already a foot away from him. He pressed his forehead against his knees and tried not to think about Felix sitting next to him. Tried not to think about Felix looking at him. Tried not to think about what taste would be left on his lips if he licked them clean.

Felix moved closer and Sylvain wanted to pull away, but Sylvain was selfish. Sylvain was greedy. Sylvain loved Felix in all the wrong ways, so he leaned into his touch as Felix pushed Sylvain’s hands away and made him look at him.

“Sylvain,” Felix said with a voice that held no panic, but a tone that carried heavy, cautious worry. “Are you okay?”

3.

When Sylvain was six, he started to figure out the magic of crests. At that time, he knew that he was special, but he didn’t fully comprehend how or why. He thought of kings and wizards and dragons within fairytales. He thought of protagonists that were born with a purpose. He thought of folk heroes that saved the day.

At that time Sylvain thought of his crest as if it were a superpower.

“Do you know what your crest is?” Miklan had asked him one day.

Miklan was the only brother Sylvain had known, so he assumed most brothers were just like him. A few years older. A good deal larger. A bit distant. Sometimes cold. Sometimes angry in a way that was always fast and unexpected.

But Miklan was the only brother Sylvain had known, so he loved him unconditionally.

“Your crest is...” Miklan scratched his chin while thinking of his words. He was only just coming into his early teenage years, and a few tiny wisps of facial hair were beginning to show early. “I mean, to you it’s a gift, I guess. What do you think it is, Syl?”

And Sylvain had answered honestly. Sylvain told him that he thought it was a superpower.

Miklan laughed. “It’s a superpower? That’s funny. It’s a superpower! Maybe to you, but everyone else? It’s a curse. A curse, your crest is a curse.”

Miklan couldn’t stop chortling and Sylvain wasn’t sure where the joke was, but he wanted to be part of it anyways. He wanted to laugh with his big brother too. Sylvain giggled into his chubby palms.

“Stop that!” Miklan cut him off, all his humor from before gone. “Stop that! Don’t laugh.” His face started to change color from pink to red to purple. “Don’t you get how selfish that is? Don’t you get how selfish you are?”

Sylvain stayed very still.

“Say sorry,” Miklan directed him. “Go on, Syl. Tell me you’re sorry. Tell me you apologize for being selfish. Go on! Say it! Say you’re sorry! Are you too selfish to even apologize? Are you so rotten you can’t even do that? Are you that rotten? Say you’re sorry, Syl! Say it! Say you’re sorry!”

* * *

Sylvain wakes up a bit after noon. He sits up and regrets it almost immediately. His head is pounding, and everything is far too bright.

“Shit,” Sylvain says. “Am I hungover?”

To his left he hears a familiar giggle. “No, you’re not.”

Sylvain squints and recognizes the form of Mercedes as she sits at his desk sewing. “Oh wow, Mercedes. I didn’t expect to find you in here while I’m so,” he looks down at his covers barely hiding his thin boxers “slightly underdressed.”

She waves him off. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, don’t worry.”

Sylvain frowns as he tries to remember when Mercedes could have possibly seen his junk. “Hey, Mercedes, when could you have possibly seen my–“

He’s cut off by a knock on the door. Mercedes stands and skips to open the door. She literally skips. What a fucking angel. What an absolute delight. Sylvain would die a thousand times over right now if she asked him too.

“Ingrid!” Mercedes calls out in absolute blissful joy.

Sylvain’s blood runs cold. Mercedes seeing his dickprint in one thing, but there’s no way he could taint Ingrid’s pure and prudish soul with this much Gautier magic. Sylvain reaches for the closest pair of pants he can find and finds one at the foot of his bed. Goddess, he hopes he didn’t accidentally sleep with Mercedes while he was in the midst of a fever.

But also, he kinda hopes he did.

No, Mercedes is too good of a person for that. She could do so much better than a feverish, mumbling, beaten up soldier. A sexy feverish, mumbling, beaten up soldier, but still. It was Mercedes.

He’s thinking about all of this instead of the more important task of putting on his pants lest he accidentally devirginize Ingrid’s eyeballs, and that’s a mistake. He gets his left foot in with ease, but the right proves trickier, and in his rush the entire thing goes to shit.

Sylvain crashes to the floor with two feet in one pant leg and his ass partially hanging out.

“Oh, come on,” Ingrid complains while pushing the door open. “As if it’s anything I haven’t seen before.”

“Hey,” Sylvain yells from the floor. “I’m too hungover to unpack that statement right now so can we, like, not?”

“You’re not hungover,” Ingrid and Mercedes say at once in two very different tones of voice.

“A bad fever and a few nasty wounds,” Mercedes fills him in. “Nothing out of the ordinary, honestly. You sure do seem to get hurt a lot, Sylvain. Try to work on that,” she says with a small sad smile and Sylvain melts.

“Of course, Mercedes. I could never leave you, my best girl, behind.”

Ingrid elbows him in his very bruised ribs. “Ahem,” she clears her throat.

“Come on, Ingrid,” Sylvain whines. “If I die, I’m counting on you to avenge my death. I know Felix won’t bother, and Dimitri is–“ he stops and thinks. “What is Dimitri right now?”

The room is quiet.

“We have a meeting soon,” Mercedes says. “He looks better.”

Mercedes notices his skepticism.

“No, really Sylvain. He looks different. There’s the meeting. We can all see then. Okay? I think things will be okay soon.” She smiles and with a little wave exits the room. Ingrid and Sylvain both smile and wave back.

“I love her,” Sylvain says earnestly.

“Ugh,” Ingrid makes a gagging noise. “Isn’t her brother the death knight? If the death knight comes after you I’m not helping.” She folds her arms and turns away.

Sylvain laughs. “Yes, you will. You know why? Do you?” He asks while pushing against her cheek with his knuckles. “Huh? Huh? Do you know why, Inny? Come on. Tell big bro Syl why you’ll help him.”

She pouts. “Because a funeral would be too expensive?”

“Bingo!” He’s glad to hear her laugh at his enthusiasm.

Ingrid rests her head against Sylvain’s arm. “I worry about you, you know,” she says.

He sighs and strokes the top of her head. “There’s nothing to worry about. Just post battle fever. It happens. I don’t think Felix or Ashe or Annette even noticed.”

He can’t see from this position, but he’s pretty sure she’s rolling her eyes. “It’s not just that.” She sits up. “Hey, you know, if you did actually want to marry Mercedes–“

“Dear Goddess,” Sylvain groans.

“I’m just saying! Maybe I would fight the death knight! If it’s in the name of ending your reigning terror of whoredom then I can sacrifice,” she strikes a very knightly pose while lovingly slandering him.

“I’m good. Thanks, but I think I’m good.”

Ingrid hits his arm. “I’m serious!” she says. “It’s not like you can do better than Mercedes. If I liked girls then even I would–“

“Oh!” Sylvain claps his hand with a grin. “I love it when you tell me which girls you’d date if you were a lesbian.”

Ingrid hits him. Hard. “Well,” she says. “Excuse me for being supportive.”

She sighs and goes back to resting her head on his arm. Sylvain continues playing with her hair.

“Sylvain?” Ingrid asks in a much less self-assured tone.

“Yeah?”

“Have you… ever liked a girl you were dating?” her voice in tentative.

Sylvain pauses his petting before taking a deep breath and continuing. “Some of them are nice. I mean, some of them are pretty cool. I could imagine us getting married and not hating each other.”

She squeezes his arm and chastises him. “That’s not the question.”

“It kinda was.”

“Syl…” she insists, equal parts irritated and begging. Unfortunately, Sylvain is a very weak man.

“No. It’s complicated. I mean, I feel like I’ve loved some of them.” He’s nervous in his fiddling now. He has to stop himself from messing up Ingrid’s hair and places his hands in his lap instead. “Yeah, I loved some of them. In my own way. Not the right way though,” he’s surprised by how much it hurts to say it like that. Never the right way. “I don’t think I know how to love anything the right way.” He lets a frustrated breath out through his nose and Ingrid pats his arm in the awkward Ingrid-comfort he’s accustomed to.

“No girls, but there’s been people you like?” She asks.

Sylvain laughs. “Yeah, but not the right way.” He realizes they’re having a conversation without saying any of the words that should be spoken. “Yeah. Yeah. There’s been people I’ve liked. I think I just got it a little backwards. Kinda figured that one out a long time ago.”

Ingrid shakes her head. She’s not disagreeing with anything specific, per say, it’s just another Ingrid habit. An inability to not scold Sylvain at all times of the day.

“Yeah, I get that one...” She’s not just sad, but resigned in a way that’s too familiar. 

“Which part?” He feels nervous asking. A little bit guilty even to imply. 

He watches her stare ahead as she shakes her head. He recognizes the way she enunciates her words just a bit too hard to keep her voice from quivering. “Just a bit backwards.”

Sylvain goes back to stroking her hair. He doesn’t want to say anything, and neither does she. Or maybe she does want to talk, maybe he does too. Not now though. Goddess knows neither of them could handle any more than this right now. 

A few minutes pass before she looks up at him. Her face is blotchy, as if she’s avoiding crying and Ingrid scrunches her red nose at him.

“What?” Sylvain asks defensively. 

Ingrid hits him on the arm.

“Hey!” He rubs his arm and whines. “Use your words, Inny. What would the professor say?”

She hits him again. “I’m sorry!” She startles him by yelling. “I’m just so mad! How the–ahh!”

Sylvain’s eyes widen. “Ingrid,” he’s not worried about her sudden outburst, but amused instead. “Are you trying to say ‘fuck’?” he asks.

She hits him again. “Maybe!”

“Do you want me to say it for you?” he asks, both bewildered, but also delighted.

“No! I’m just, Goddess, Sylvain how the– Ugh! How the–“

“Fuck!”

“Yes! Thank you!” She tells him while swatting his arm again. “How the fuck did you go from point A to point B and turn your whole personality into nothing but skirt chasing?” She asks absolutely baffled. “I mean of all things? You couldn’t have gone a different direction other than ‘womanizer’?” She starts ranting while Sylvain tries to connect the dots. 

Unfortunately, Sylvain is a little bit stupid.

“I’m confused,” he confesses.

“Why?” Ingrid asks with nothing but exhaustion weighing her down. “I just want to know why. Why would you put me through years of cleaning up the aftermath of your near constant whore-mageddon if you don’t even like–“ she chokes over the word girls as they both cringe. “Oh, I’m going to kill you,” she tires herself out as fast as she angered. “I love you so much, but Sylvain, I’m going to kill you.”

Sylvain pulls her back to lean against his side. “There there,” he comforts her. “It’ll be okay. I’m sorry that–“

“No!” She panics while trying to cover his mouth.

Sylvain holds both his hands up in surrender, actually startled this time. Once again, he’s confused at Ingrid’s burst of emotions. 

Ingrid twists her face up while lowering her hands, a bit embarrassed. Sylvain wants to laugh at how even she hadn’t been spared the Faerghus inability to communicate emotions, but he resists. 

She catches her breath and composes herself carefully before explaining.

“Please, don’t say sorry.” She places a hand on either side of his face, far more gentle than she’s ever been, and presses her forehead to his. He has no choice but to look directly into her bossy, big green eyes sternly lectures him once more. “Sylvain José Gautier, there are so many things in the world you need to apologize for, but you pick all the wrong ones.”

He feels that one in his chest.

“Let’s get married,” he blurts out without thinking, but somehow still knows to throw an instinctual arm up in defense.

“Sylvain!” Ingrid sputters. “We literally just had an entire conversation about us not–“

“But I love you,” he argues.

“Love me from afar!” She shoves him away without malice.

Ingrid sighs and leans back to look him over. She clucks her tongue while pushing his bangs out of his face. “Oh, Sylvain, what are we going to do with you?”

Sylvain pouts and pushes his knuckles against her cheek. “What do you mean?”

She frowns and shakes her head. “You really think you love things wrong? I mean, of all people, you?”

* * *

This is a list of reasons Sylvain loves Felix. It is also a list of reasons why that terrifies him.

1.

Five years ago, Sylvain kissed Felix without warning and without prompting.

Felix didn’t run. Felix didn’t yell. Felix didn’t call him insatiable or chastise him about how he’s not some girl for Sylvain to fool around. Felix didn’t do a single one of those very Felix things.

He asked if Sylvain was okay. He asked because he knew that he wasn’t.

And that was more than Sylvain could hope for. A do-over. A reset button. Just a tiny bit of a divine blessing.

Felix asked if he was okay and after carefully positioning himself between a rock and a hard place, Sylvain had nowhere to run.

“No,” Sylvain reluctantly admitted. “I don’t think I am.”

Felix grimaced. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it,” he cringed over his own words. “We could talk?”

“Nah,”

“Thank the Goddess,” Felix agreed in relief. “Come on,” he stood and offered his hand to Sylvain.

Sylvain grabbed it, squeezing his fingers tight as he stood, before making sure to let them go without lingering.

Felix walked and Sylvain followed.

“Are you taking me to go train?” Sylvain complained behind him.

“No,” Felix grumbled. “That’d actually be fun.”

Sylvain squinted at him. “Are we petting cats? I like dogs more, ya know.”

Felix shuddered. “Bad taste. And no.” Felix walked faster as if trying to outrun whatever decision he had made for them. “That’d actually be fun.”

Sylvain quickened his step to match him. “Then what are we doing?”

Felix sighed and covered his face, somehow managing to continue walking at a breakneck speed, despite the self-imposed disability. “We’re going to town,” his voice was muffled by his hands, but Sylvain still heard him clearly.

“Why?” Sylvain asked.

Felix groaned again like answering was giving him a bad stomach ache. It probably was. “So, we can… ugh… so we can hit on girls, or whatever…”

Sylvain did a double take. “Wait, seriously?” he asked excited. “We’re getting you laid?”

“No!” Felix said and stopped in his tracks. “Absolutely not. Here’s the rules, okay? Rule one: fuck you.”

Sylvain nodded. “Should I be taking notes?”

“Yes, you should. Rule one: fuck you. Rule two–“

“Is it also ‘fuck you’?”

Felix pouted. “Maybe. Okay rule three: no hook ups.” He ignored Sylvain’s groans. “I’m serious! For both of us! I’ll indulge your dumb need to flirt with girls, but that’s where the line is. You can’t hook up with anyone either. Not while you’re out with me.”

Sylvain nodded. “Okay, fine. Whatever. ‘No fun allowed’ I get it.”

“Good because that’s rule four. If I see you having fun I’m going home,” Felix crossed his arms and waited in silence for a few seconds. “That one was a joke,” he said.

“Oh,” Sylvain said. “With you I really can’t ever tell.”

“And no future dates! This is a one time thing only! Say thank you to Miklan’s rotting corpse, okay, because unless you get another dead brother, I am never doing this again.”

Sylvain laughed. “Alright alright alright. Now, let’s see you flirt!”

Felix knew how to ease Sylvain out of a bad place better than anyone.

2.

Felix was an expert at paradoxes. Felix was a master at housing conflicting morals and attitudes within his body, but somehow avoided a feeling of hypocrisy.

Sylvain once heard Felix say to Ashe, in complete utter sincerity, “Being a knight is lame. You should back to robbing nobles. You can rob my dad if you want. We’re rich and not using most of it.”

His invitation was genuine. His nonchalant attitude to redistributing wealth not a façade he adopted. Felix just thought it’d be cool if Ashe robbed his dad. There was nothing more to it. Robbers were cooler than knights.

It drove Sylvain insane. The impossible twists and turns that composed the puzzle of Felix. He thought he could spend a dozen lifetimes doing nothing but listen to Felix talk, and he would still not be satisfied.

Sylvain couldn’t imagine a life without Felix there to fill in the gaps with random, yet incredibly sincere absurdity.

3.

It never felt hard to apologize to each other. Sometimes, Sylvain could do something wrong. Sleep with someone he shouldn’t. Say something he didn’t mean (for the most part.) Most of the time it was like pulling teeth to get him to apologize in a sincere manner.

It didn’t feel that way with Felix. A week after Sylvain did maybe one of the stupidest things in his life and kissed Felix without warning he just, like, said sorry. No big deal.

“Sorry, I tried to make out with you while I was having a mild breakdown, bro.”

“It’s fine. Are you fine?”

“Yeah,” he said and it wasn’t a complete lie. The two stood silently for a few more seconds, neither prodding the other to discuss the thing they should obviously be discussing. “The professor’s making me learn reason. D’you want me to show you how to light something on fire?”

“Fuck yeah.”

Neither of them was very good at magic, but that didn’t really matter. What was important was the fact that Sylvain apologized and then neither of them brought it up ever again. Now that was a good bro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal with writing is always to be v intentional abt how things are presented and how to discuss srs topics in a way that minimizes a feeling of voyeuristic fetishism. Still, there's a handful of TWs around dissociation, hypersexuality, mentions of homophobia, and childhood verbal abuse. I still think it's nice to clarify that my goal w writing this is to present Sylvain's problems and flaws from a place rooted in empathy first and foremost.  
> ***trigger warn specifics with spoilers for fic:  
> 1\. starting at "gronder field happens" a little less than half way thru the tone shifts to be a bit more serious. there is a depiction of dissociation that continues on from that point up until "sylvain wakes up a bit after noon"  
> 2\. within that the list that's "What about another list? What about something fun?" has pieces of unreality within.  
> 3\. "This is a list of times Sylvain has apologized." the first one features sylvain yelling at ingrid and then him having a panic attack that's described vividly.  
> 4\. the second bullet point mentions him kissing felix without asking for consent first. it's brief and nothing progresses in any type of weird way like at all.  
> 5\. **i think this one is the most relevant tw for child/sibling verbal abuse** and then third bullet point on same "sylvain apologizes" shows sylvain (6) being verbally abused by miklan (around 12-14) where he berates sylvain to force him apologize while calling him spoiled and rotten. explicit verbal abuse starts at "“Stop that!” Miklan cut him off, all his humor from before gone." and ends with the conclusion of the scene where the next one is "Sylvain wakes up a bit after noon."  
> 6\. ah i think that's it. after that is a much nicer scene and i try to end on a soft note.***
> 
> ANYWAYS 
> 
> This is the first chapter of my Sylvain fic! I have the next 10k written which I'll edit and post within the week. I then have to write an extra 5-7k (probably either this or next weekend) that will conclude the fic at 3 chapters and around 26k-ish? The first chapter is the heaviest but the rest will continue to deal with Sylvain's issues. The next chapter specifically goes a bit more in detail about Sylvain's problems with hypersexuality. None of it will be explicit but there will be references to sexuality of him as a teenager.  
> There's also going to be parts of it that have Dimitri/Sylvain mentioned. It's not endgame and the focus is on Felix/Sylvain but like ya know. That'll be a thing. 
> 
> Oh, also I think Sylvain's like. gay specifically. I don't think Felix's specif sexuality comes up but I do HC him as bi. I just. Think Sylvain's gay lmaooo and that'll be a big part of how his issues manifest.
> 
> My twitter can be found [here](https://twitter.com/biheretic) as well as curiouscat and all that. If there's any questions abt how I decided to set things up or my thought process around stuff feel free to ask bc I put way too much intentionality in the way this is presented fdkjgngdkf


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain does what he does best which is make mistakes like a dipshit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu chapter 2 stuff happens my apologies. i'll throw potential tws at the bottom there's nothing intense tho

Dimitri is better. Not the same as before. Not the kid they used to play with. It’s progress though. Dimitri is beginning to be Dimitri once more.

Sylvain can see tension fall away from Felix’s shoulders. Tension that’s been there for nearly a decade. Dimitri is better and Felix softens and Sylvain wants to feel happy for them, he really, _really_ does, but he also doesn’t know how.

“See,” Sylvain tells Felix later that week. “Didn’t I tell you that it’d get better?”

Felix rolls his eyes. “No, I do not recall you saying those words specifically.”

Neither of them had talked about Rodrigue yet. They don’t know how. They put it on the backburner for another day.

Sylvain laughs. “Dimitri’s back, so I guess you’re gonna abandon me then, huh? Go back to clinging on his arm? ‘Dima!’” Sylvain says in a high pitched voice. “’Dima, I want you to play with meeeee!’”

Felix glares at him. “Shut up, I was not like that.”

Sylvain winks. “Okay, whatever you say, Felix. As long as you remember who was the one that played with you whenever Dimitri abandoned you for his dumb prince training, okay?”

“Is there something you want to say?” Felix asks with more agitation than usual.

“Sorry,” Sylvain holds his hands up in a fake apology. “I didn’t mean to strike a nerve. I’m glad Dimitri’s back. I missed him too.”

Felix looks down at his feet. “Yeah…” he says honestly. “We talked a bit,” Felix admits.

“How’d that go?” Sylvain asks because he wants this. He wants Dimitri and Felix to be friends. He wants all of them to be friends again. He wants it so bad, but at the same time his throat is full of cotton and he doesn’t know how to make it go away.

“It was… It was fine,” Felix says bashfully. “It was okay.”

* * *

A quiet jealousy churns in his chest. It’s unfounded on so many levels. Sylvain is not dating Felix. Felix is not dating Dimitri. Actually, thinking about it, Sylvain’s not even sure which of his childhood friends are even interested in gendered options aside from their societally assigned choice.

There is no reason for this bitterness to be digging itself into his guts. There is no reason for him to be the sole storm cloud threatening a new dawn.

Sylvain feels like his skin is too hot and too cold at once. Sylvain feels like something inside of him is going to break. Sylvain decides that it’s probably time to find himself a new date soon. Something. Anything. He feels like everything itches from the inside out.

He’s walking like this, thinking his thoughts and minding his own business when he runs face first into the brick wall that is Dimitri’s chest.

“Oh shit, my bad, Your Highness,” Sylvain apologizes with a shit eating grin and a quick bow.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri says his name with a fondness that for years had been foreign to his tongue. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Sylvain rubs the back of his neck and scrunches his face up to appear confused. “Huh? Why? I already told you, I don’t think my dad’s gonna send more troops with how tight things are right now.”

Dimitri frowns. “No, not that. Not about war.”

Sylvain exhales a small laugh. “Everything’s about the war now, Your Highness.”

“In a way, I can’t say you’re wrong,” he thinks it over carefully, and the familiarity of Dimitri latching onto whatever bullshit Sylvain conjures rubs him raw in a place he didn’t even know was still sore. “Sylvain, I wish to apologize.”

“Please, there’s no need. Honestly, Your Highness.” This time Sylvain makes his face somber and contemplative. “All I need you to do is go out there and win this war.”

Dimitri shakes his head. “Yes, winning the war is part of this, but there’s more to it. You’re my friend and the degree of harm I have caused you is, well, it’s devastating, Sylvain. Sylvain, I am so very–“

“Come on, come on!” Sylvain waves his hands to cut him off. “You’re embarrassing me, Your Highness. I can’t deal with that.” He slaps Dimitri on the shoulder and shakes his head. “We’ve been friends since we were kids. Do you really think you need to apologize to me?”

Dimitri stays still for too long. Sylvain holds back from fidgeting as he watches the crease in between Dimitri’s eyebrows deepen.

“Sylvain,” he says quietly at last. “Are we not friends?” Dimitri asks with all the hurt in the world dripping from his question.

Sylvain stops talking. He pushes his hair back as he thinks about the question.

“Fuck, Dimitri,” he says finally. No feigned emotions here. Just damaged words that fall and break in the space between them. “Fuck, _Dimitri,_ what am I supposed to say?” Sylvain asks as his voice cracks over his childhood friend’s name.

* * *

This is a list of ways Sylvain knows Dimitri loves him.

1.

The way Dimitri said skirt chaser. It’s a silly term. It’s the type of cuss word even a grandmother would roll her eyes at, but Dimitri always stumbled over it. He’d enunciate it reluctantly, like it pained him to disparage his friend, even if Sylvain arguably deserved worse. When it came to cursing, Dimitri was worse than even Ingrid. 

Felix sometimes would try and taunt him into calling Sylvain a slut, and Sylvain would join in as well because he thought it was funny. Dimitri wouldn’t ever relent though. Stubborn and principled. That was the Dimitri they knew.

“He isn’t some licentious _floozy_ ,” Dimitri said once as if floozy was the dirtiest word he could imagine. “He’s just a bit of a flirt. A, well, a skirt chaser if you’d pardon my language.”

It always had Sylvain rolling watching Dimitri turn red.

2.

He was always trying with Sylvain. Dimitri _always_ tried. Whether that was to get him to go to class or to try and understand Sylvain’s interests a bit better. Even if Sylvain was only joking, even if Sylvain wasn’t expecting him to, Dimitri always gave it his all when it came to Sylvain. He’d play along with Sylvain’s flirting. He’d struggle through the rulebook of the new board game Sylvain had bought. Dimitri always expected the most out of him, but that pressure never felt stifling. There was a way Dimitri urged him, an insistence in his voice, that never smothered. Never disappointed. There was a way he looked at Sylvain that said _there is greatness here._

3.

The way he worried. Dimitri. He worried. About a lot of things. About Sylvain. Dimitri always worried about Sylvain.

“My father, he could speak with yours and–“ Dimitri whispered to Sylvain in the hallways of the castle once.

“Shut up,” Sylvain hissed back and dug his nails in his forearm.

“ _Sylvain_ ,” there was more concern lining the corners of his face than any ten-year-old boy should carry.

 _“Your Highness I–“_ Sylvain barely got his formal address out before Dimitri was flailing at him and telling him to stop. 

“Don’t ‘Your Highness’ me, Sylvain! He pushed you into a _well_!” Any semblance of whispering was given up. Dimitri was never good at tact. He wasn’t good at subtily like Sylvain was. When he yelled, he did so from a place in his chest that housed worry, love, anger, and an unwavering defensiveness.

But what good could all that emotion do? Other than to wreck the inside of Dimitri’s chest.

Sylvain convinced him to not involve his father. What would it do? What could they ever change? If Sylvain’s parents care enough to make it stop, then it would have stopped. They didn’t. They didn’t care.

But Dimitri did. 

Or Dimitri once cared.

Dimitri cared about Sylvain until Dimitri stopped caring about anything and anyone that wasn’t a ghost screaming in his ear.

What could Sylvain possibly say to him now?

* * *

Sylvain talks to Felix. 

“I think I’m mad at him,” Sylvain says.

“You’re a bit late to the party,” Felix replies.

Sylvain’s laying flopped on Felix’s bed and staring at the cracks on the wall. He can count sixteen even around Felix’s room and he thinks that’s a good number.

“Was I mad at him before?” Sylvain asks.

Felix glares at him from his seat at his desk. Felix is always glaring, so Sylvain doesn’t think too much of it. Sylvain knows that he’s trying to study his notes for the mortal savant certification, but he’s not the fastest at magic and he’s struggling a bit. “How would I know?”

“I bet you sapped up all the anger,” Sylvain says while sitting up. “You were mad at him for years which meant there wasn’t any anger left for the rest of us.”

Felix tosses a pen at his head and ignores it when Sylvain whines. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s true,” Sylvain complains and rubs at his temple. “I’m just trying to figure out when I started being mad at him,” he says.

Felix shrugs. “He’s our friend. You can’t stay mad forever.”

“Ugh,” Sylvain groans and goes back to lying on his back. “Just because someone’s my friend doesn’t mean I have to forgive them,” he argues.

“I didn’t say you did.”

“You said I can’t stay mad at him forever. Pretty rich coming from you.” Sylvain tosses the pen back at Felix, aiming for his dumb, pretty face.

“Shut up,” Felix scowls and catches the pen with ease as it whizzes past his ear. “I’m not saying you have to ever stop being mad at him, I’m just saying you can’t be mad at him forever.”

“Felix,” Sylvain says, absolutely bewildered. “What in the fuck could that even mean?”

“Figure it out!” He’s embarrassed now. If Sylvain only thinks with his dick, then Felix only thinks with his heart which means Felix doesn’t see the contradiction in his statement. Sylvain wants to be annoyed, but unfortunately, he only thinks with his dick and that means he’s a bit charmed by the surprisingly stupid nature of his best friend.

“You’re not mad at him anymore?” Sylvain asks.

Felix hesitates. Sylvain can tell he wants to lie but doesn’t know how. “I was angry for a really long time,” he says. “I’m just tired now.”

Sylvain sits up again and tilts his head, trying to catch his eye. “He’s done a lot, Fe.”

“I know that,” Felix says without looking up. His face is burning, but he doesn’t cry. Sylvain knows Felix doesn’t cry anymore. “If anyone understands that then it’s me, okay?”

He can’t argue with that. “I told you, you used up all the anger reserves,” Sylvain tries to joke even though he’s a little bit serious. “Now I finally get some and you tell me I gotta let it go. How’s that fair?”

Felix scowls, but doesn’t argue. A familiar guilt nibbles at the edges of Sylvain’s chest.

Sylvain sighs and walks over to him. He crouches in front of Felix. “Hey,” he says.

“You can feel whatever you want,” Felix turns his head away. He’s biting his lip, hard enough that the flesh under his teeth is white, and Sylvain wonders if he’s fucking with him. “It’s just complicated.”

A familiar anger starts simmering in Sylvain. He pinches Felix’s chin between his fingers, not hard, but forceful enough that he has to meet his eye. “Everything is complicated. Everyone is complicated,” Sylvain doesn’t know where he’s going with this.

“I know that,” Felix spits his words. He jerks his head away and crosses his arms. “Anything else obvious you want to tell me?” The question splatters bitterly at Sylvain’s feet.

Sylvain exhales and forces whatever irrational anger he’s growing to back down. When he stands, he tries for a neutral look on his face, but it’s always harder to do that when it comes to Felix.

“I don’t get why we’re fighting,” Felix says in a way that makes it obvious he’s still planning on winning the argument regardless.

“We’re not,” Sylvain says in a way that confesses that they are. “You can have your friend back that’s fucking great.”

Felix twists his mouth up in an unflattering way. He looks like he’s about to say something, but then his eyes light up from sudden understanding. “Are you _jealous_?” Felix asks incredulously.

Sylvain feels his skin flush. “No,” he lies.

“What’s wrong with you?” Felix asks him perplexed.

Sylvain knows Felix well enough to interpret his tone. He knows that he’s not scolding Sylvain. He knows that he’s not judging him. He knows that it just doesn’t add up in his head. That there’s a logic behind there that won’t slide into place. Sylvain knows this, but it gets drowned out by white noise in his eardrums. Felix’s intention gets burned off Sylvain’s skin too fast to sink in.

Sylvain turns on his heels to leave, and Felix calls after him. “Stop being a baby, Sylvain!” he yells, amused. “I promise I’m not abandoning you for the boar!”

Sylvain slams the door on his way out. Whatever rotten jealousy is turning inside of him just feels embarrassing now. It really doesn’t make any sense to be envious, and the absurdity of it has him flushing red.

He hates how good Felix is at snapping him out of his moods.

* * *

This is a list of ways Sylvain deals with jealousy.

1.

He finds a date. This has been his favorite method for a while. Since he was sixteen at least. He likes someone. He wants someone. He builds that up in his head without any tangible ownership he can claim, and when that’s threatened it hurts. It crushes him. Out of all his feelings, the sadness and the anger and the love and the want, Sylvain thinks jealousy is the one that incapacitates him the most. It’s the one that twists everything all wrong inside. It’s the emotion that makes his skin burn red and his heart thump violently.

For most bad emotions Sylvain fixes it by finding a date. A girl. Someone to woo and someone to bed.

Dating is complex. Sylvain is prone to over complicating things and dating is no exception.

Because maybe he doesn’t like girls. Maybe he kinda fucking hates them. Maybe the idea of a not so far off wedding with a woman chosen by his parents fills him with dread in a way he doesn’t think it’s supposed to. And maybe he ignores all that and fucks a lot of girls anyways.

He thinks there’s something wrong with him.

2.

He finds a different date. Sleeping around with dozens of women isn’t purely self-sabotage for the sake of self-sabotage. There is some logic to it.

Sometimes he finds a different kind of date. Less often. More carefully. Spaced out with precision because the good part of a bad reputation is that nobody thinks twice if there’s rumors of a few boys circling the line to his bed.

Sometimes he finds a different date. Ones that are handsome and have big hands that cup that back of Sylvain’s head a little too roughly. He finds dates with chapped lips and scruff around their jawline. He finds dates with deep voices and hard chests and a grip that leaves bruises on his thigh.

He finds dates that he can laugh with behind the horse’s shed. He finds dates that will smile at him slyly days later. He finds dates that make his heart squeeze itself backwards.

He finds dates, and he tries not to learn their names.

3.

Sometimes he finds a date just to ruin things. Ruin what? He’s not entirely sure. There’s just a twitch in his fingers. A hum in his head. A constantly mutating entity threatening to overtake the crevices of his chest.

He finds dates who looks at him and thinks to themselves “that one is rotten.”

He finds dates that want to bury their fingers into his body and pull out every spoiled piece inside him.

He finds dates that bite. He finds dates that blow smoke into his face. He finds dates who don’t bother asking for his name. They won’t remember it anyways.

* * *

“Your highness,” Sylvain greets Dimitri in surprise.

“Sylvain?” Dimitri replies back equally shocked.

The place they’re in is barely a pub, most everyone in Garreg Mach prefers their food over the other restaurants in town, but at the same time it’s not _not_ a pub.

“Are you allowed in here?” Sylvain asks more genuine than he should be.

Dimitri frowns. “I eat,” he says as if Sylvain hadn’t seen him eat a whole steak without utensils a few weeks back.

“Is that a beer?” Sylvain sits next to him and peeks into his cup. “Are you _allowed_ to drink?”

Dimitri snatches his cup away. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you’re a…” Sylvain searches for the right word. “Prude? Yeah, I’m gonna go with prude.”

With a sigh Dimitri elects to ignore him and motions for the bartender to bring over another mug for Sylvain.

“We had a victory the other day,” Dimitri explains. “The Alliance is on our side and Claude is safe. Is that not cause for celebration?”

Sylvain can’t argue with that one. “You’re right, you’re right.” Sylvain cups his hands around his mouth and yells loud enough for the entire pub to hear. “NEXT ROUND IS ON THE KING OF FAERGHUS!” He announces to the deafening cheers of the patrons.

Dimitri frowns, but doesn’t argue. “Fine,” he knocks his mug into Sylvain’s. “Cheers.”

Sylvain grins. “Cheers, Your Highness.”

The two of them go over the last battle. They plan for the next. They joke about the professor and Dimitri does a spot-on impression of Felix lecturing a cat. Sylvain laughs hard enough that he chokes on his beer while Dimitri admits that he can’t taste his drink and is also pretty sure he has the alcohol tolerance of a large bull.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri says finally. “I still want to–“

“Stop. If you apologize then I’m going to make you buy everyone their drinks for the rest of the night,” Sylvain threatens.

Dimitri sighs. “I’m willing to take the punishment.”

“It’s not enough.”

“I know.”

It’s easy. On the Goddess, it is so easy to fall back into a time from before, but Sylvain can’t allow himself too. He can’t figure out how to make himself do it.

“I’m not,” Sylvain shakes his head and tries to think. “Look, I’m not Ingrid or Felix, okay?”

Dimitri nods. “Yes. I am aware.”

“I can’t do the unconditional friendship thing,” Sylvain admits.

“Oh, and Felix can?” Dimitri asks.

Sylvain laughs. “Answer honestly: Do you think he ever stopped considering you his friend?”

The words weigh Dimitri’s large shoulders down. He shakes his head. “No, perhaps not, though he has such an unconventional way of showing it.”

“Just give me time, okay?” Sylvain says. “I’m not built that way.”

Dimitri looks at him as if he’s the only person in the room. Intense and single minded. “And what is that?”

“Unconditional, unrelenting love no matter what,” Sylvain answers with a small grin. “Sorry, Your Highness. I got too many trust issues for that.”

Dimitri grabs his hand and Sylvain is too surprised to pull away. It’s a little too firm a grip, a little too warm, but oddly familiar. Dimitri squeezes his fingers while saying “You don’t have to be sorry for that, Sylvain. If you want time then take time. Your friendship will always be worth waiting for.”

Sylvain shakes his head, strangely embarrassed. “You can’t just say those things.”

“Yes, I can. I’m the king, aren’t I?” Dimitri turns in his seat and cups his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice. He doesn’t yell, he declares. “THE NEXT ROUND WILL BE COURTESY OF THE KING OF FAERGHUS!” and once more the room erupts into cheers.

Sylvain elbows him in his side. “I’ve known you since we were kids,” Sylvain says simply. “That’s wild.”

Dimitri nods. “I suppose. My apologies, Sylvain. I’m half rotten on the inside nowadays.”

Sylvain laughs and knocks their mugs together once more. “Fuck, bro, me too! Cheers!”

* * *

They walk back to the dorms together. Sylvain cups the back of his neck and hums a song while Dimitri walks by his side in pleasant silence. Sylvain feels giddy, but he doesn’t think it’s from the beer. At his size it takes a lot more to get him to even halfway buzzed. He thinks he’s a little drunk on the night’s air, though. He thinks he’s a little high from the moonlight’s gentle wash.

“Your Highness,” Sylvain says goodbye as they reach their respective doors.

“Sylvain,” Dimitri bids him farewell in a similar fashion. Neither of them moves to enter.

“Hey,” Sylvain says finally after half a minute has passed. He leans against his door frame and scratches the back of his neck. “Do you want to make out?”

“Sylvain!” Dimitri’s singular eye widens and his face flashes red. He slaps a hand over his mouth when he realizes that he had yelled his name.

“What?” Sylvain asks casually. “It’s just a question,” he means that. Yes or no, either’s fine. Sylvain’s just prone to impulses that future Sylvain will have to figure out.

“That’s not a question you just ask,” Dimitri says while burying his face in his hands.

Sylvain raises both his hands in a pacifying manner. “Damn, okay,” he says. “No big deal I promise. G’night, Your Highness.” He turns to actually enter his room but is stopped by a tug on his sleeve.

Sylvain wants to laugh at the sight of Dimitri’s large, intimidating figure holding onto his arm shyly with a blush that refuses to disappear, but he’s trying to be less mean as a person.

“Okay,” Dimitri says to his shoes.

“Okay,” Sylvain pushes his door open.

Sylvain sits on his bed and unlaces his shoes.“They’re just muddy,” Sylvain explains while shoving his boots under his desk.

Dimitri seems unsure if he should follow suit and settles on the middle ground of sitting beside him. He’s still visibly embarrassed. He’s having a hard time meeting Sylvain’s eye, but also doesn’t seem to know where to look otherwise and settles for scanning his room.

Sylvain carefully folds one of his legs under him and turns to face Dimitri. “We don’t gotta,” Sylvain offers with complete sincerity.

“Ah,” Dimitri says while looking towards him. He’s no less red in the face, but it seems to be from embarrassment for the most part and not anxiety. “But I want to?”

This time Sylvain can’t help but laugh.

Sylvain helps him unclasp his cape from his shoulder while Dimitri pulls a hair tie from his pocket and tries to get most of his uneven locks tucked away. Without the fur Dimitri looks less wide, but when Sylvain runs his hand over his shoulders, he can feel how strength radiates off of him. Neither of them is wearing armor, which is good, but Sylvain still fiddles with the black cloth stretched thin across Dimitri’s torso.

Dimitri grabs Sylvain’s hand for the second time that night and this time instead of squeezing his fingers gently he brings his palm to his mouth and holds it there. Sylvain shudders when he feels the exhale of breath against his skin, and he closes his eyes to steady himself.

He really shouldn’t feel this– Whatever this is. Sylvain can’t pinpoint his exact emotions. He just knows it’s far too intense. He decides that’s a problem for future Sylvain and charges forward.

“If you want to stop just say so,” Sylvain reiterates.

“I could snap your neck like a twig,” Dimitri assures him.

Sylvain rolls his eyes. “How about instead of resorting to something that drastic you just use your words?”

Dimitri nods, and taking that as a go-ahead Sylvain moves his hand to cup at the base of Dimitri’s neck. He nudges him forward with a slight press of his fingers against his spine, feeling a little bit crazy when he feels Dimitri shiver in response. 

Sylvain guides him close enough that he can feel the warmth of his body without touching, close enough that he can feel Dimitri hold his breath, and his heartbeat pick up gradual speed. Sylvain counts to three in his head, dragging his fingers in purposeful circles against his nape, before he leans forward with an intentional slowness. With a ghost of a breath, his lips barely whisper their presence to his mouth, but regardless Dimitri’s sigh is ragged in return.

Sylvain exhales a small laugh and Dimitri huffs in reply. His hands go from hanging limp on his lap, and move to cup Sylvain’s waist instead. His grip is a little too firm. It’s a little too warm. It’s exactly what Sylvain likes as Dimitri tilts his head in search for more. 

Sylvain stops him by pushing a hand against his chest. Dimitri looks concerned for a moment with his eyebrows furrowed, but is quickly appeased when Sylvain nudges his nose against his jaw to lightly kiss the skin there too.

“Just checking,” Sylvain says in a low voice mumbled against Dimitri’s neck. “This isn’t because you feel guilty about almost killing all your childhood friends, right?” Sylvain asks as he nips his teeth against the quickened thumping of Dimitri’s jugular.

Dimitri thinks about it. “I’d say it’s less than 10 percent because of that,” he answers honestly. “Is that alright?”

Sylvain shrugs. He figures that’s good enough.

When Sylvain leans forward again, he does it with a purpose. He’s more confident, not the barely present tease against his lips, but a possessive claim. He curls his fingers around the back of his neck and when Dimitri lets out a tiny gasp Sylvain takes the opportunity to kiss him in earnest. 

Firm, but still soft. Forceful, but not needy. Sylvain breathes an almost groan as Dimitri pulls him nearer. Kisses him back harder. Parts pliantly as Sylvain licks into his mouth wanting more more more.

It takes about fifteen seconds for the desperation to set in. To go from chaste gentle kisses, to a shared ferocious need for someone tangibly there and willing. For Sylvain to half crawl into his lap even though he’s too big to do so. For Dimitri to clack his teeth against his, far too eager and impatient. They are greedy. Greedy for someone to want them. Greedy for a momentary ownership.

And so, Sylvain tangles his hands into Dimitri’s hair and grips him like a lifeline.

And so, Dimitri grabs onto Sylvain’s waist, his thigh, anything he can reach and holds on like he’s afraid that Sylvain will slip away in a wisp of smoke.

And so, they dig their fingers into each other’s soft, rotten core and selfishly ask for more.

* * *

This is a list of reasons why Sylvain sleeps with Dimitri.

1.

Dimitri was there. Almost 80% of the time that’s the reason Sylvain sleeps with most people. The specifics are rarely more complicated than that.

They were there and Sylvain was wanting. They were there and Sylvain was lacking. They were there and Sylvain is bad at taking care of himself.

2.

Maybe he wanted to ruin him. If Sylvain can’t solve a puzzle, then he can always just break it. Maybe he just wanted Dimitri to be spoiled, just like him.

Sylvain liked to imagine that he was dripping poison. That his hands were covered in black ink. When he dragged them through Dimitri’s hair, along his neck, and down his torso it was just dark smears of ruin. That maybe when he bit his jaw it’d seep into him. That maybe when he carved crescent indents into his shoulders, whatever was wrong with Sylvain would make a home in him instead.

If he panted in his mouth. If he tasted him on his tongue. If he tangled himself close enough that the bruises on his collar fit the shape of Dimitri’s teeth.

Maybe if he broke him then Sylvain wouldn’t feel as lonely in the mess of his own wreckage.

3.

Sylvain missed Dimitri. Sometimes things were that simple. Sylvain missed Dimitri and he didn’t know how to make that better. Sylvain missed Dimitri and he didn’t know how to stop being angry at him. He didn’t know how to trust in him. He didn’t know how to love him unconditionally even though he wanted to. Even though he really, really wanted to.

Sometimes things were just straightforward, and Sylvain was lonely, and Sylvain wanted his childhood friend back, and Sylvain didn’t know how to want in a capacity that didn’t hurt as well.

* * *

Sylvain’s laying on his back on the dock and wondering if he should go for a swim. It’s well past midnight by now, but the summer air is sticky, and Sylvain wants to feel clean.

“Going skinny dipping?” Dorothea’s voice chimes behind him.

Sylvain looks up. “Depends on who’s my company,” he says with a grin.

Dorothea sits beside him. She’s not wearing shoes, and he wonders if she was actually planning on taking a swim.

“You look, hmm…” She rests a finger against her lip trying to think of a word. “Not bad, per say.”

“Thank you.”

“But not anything close to good. Ah, I know,” she claps her hands in glee. “You look like hot, slutty garbage.”

Sylvain mulls it over. “Hot as in sexy or hot as in gross.”

Dorothea winks at him. “I think it’s more fun if you decide.” She looks him over and purses her full, pretty lips. “I must say, Sylvie, you have looked better.”

Sylvain shrugs. “Could be worse.”

“You’re wearing socks and no shoes.”

“And you have no shoes or socks which means I’m doing better than you.”

“You have a hickie on your neck.”

Sylvain slaps a hand on his neck as if he could feel it out, “Shit.”

“Not there,” Dorothea cranes her neck to see where he’s covering. “Oh, wait no, there’s one on that side too.”

Sylvain sighs. Dorothea stirs slightly before laying down beside him. She looks up at the sky alongside him.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Trying to see if there’s an even number of stars,” Sylvain answers.

Dorothea hums and he knows her well enough to pick out her cheerful hums from her nervous ones.

“Sylvain,” she pronounces his name with a somber tone, “what did you do?”

He just wants to lie here and count the stars. Maybe go for a swim. Maybe go for a walk. Sylvain covers his eyes with his hands and groans. “Something dumb,” he says.

“Now, that isn’t so out of the ordinary for you, is it?”

He laughs. “No, it’s very much me.”

Dorothea huffs out. “It’s hard to keep up my fun and flirty teasing when you’re being so self-deprecating. It really isn’t fair for me.”

“Sorry,” he says, and the word burns on his tongue.

“Well,” Dorothea continues and sits up. She crosses her legs, careful to make sure her skirt is positioned discreetly, and thinks. “Shall I guess then? Let’s see… The professor?”

Sylvain sits up with her. “Huh? What about them?”

Dorothea makes a tsk-ing noise. “Okay, so not them. Good, that would be awkward, wouldn’t it? Who’s next… Mercedes?”

“Dorothea…”

“No, she’s too good for you. Annette?”

“No! Goddess, isn’t she like, twelve?”

Dorothea rolls her eyes in a very dramatic fashion. She’s not wearing makeup, a rare sight for her, and Sylvain can see exactly how tired she is.

“Come on, Sylvie. I can keep guessing names all day. Petra?”

“No,” Sylvain answers.

“Thank the Goddess, I was going to have to kill you.”

“Hey, I’m a catch.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure she’d catch _something._ ” She nonchalantly flips her hair over her shoulder. “Darling Petra. Sweet, ethereal Petra. For Sylvain’s sake, I pray that he would never.”

Sylvain shudders a little at her cold tone. “No cross house fornication, I promise.”

Dorothea nods before her face sours. “Please don’t say my beautiful and pure Ingrid.”

“ _Dorothea!”_ Sylvain yells horrified.

“You never know!” Dorothea defends herself. “It’s like a wound’s dressing, I just had to rip it off!”

“Disgusting! I don’t think Ingrid even knows what sex is,” he can’t help himself from laughing at the absurdity of it.

Dorothea wiggles her shoulders at him. “Oh, well if she needs a teacher,” she blows him a kiss.

Sylvain pretends to gag. “Please, I can’t handle this anymore. What more do you want from me?”

Dorothea tightens her lips slightly. She starts to fiddle with her hair. “I want to know that you’re okay,” she says honestly.

“Why does everyone want to know that?” Sylvain complains.

“Oh, woe is you, Sylvain. The pain of having friends who care about you. Shall I write you a sonnet?”

“No, thank you,” Sylvain flops back down and groans. “Ugh okay. I kinda... maybe...” he grimaces as if he has to physically pull each word out of him. “Slept with Dimitri? A little bit?”

“Just a little bit?” Dorothea asks with an even voice.

“Yeah,” Sylvain nods. “Just a little bit.”

“The man’s been de-crazy-fied for two months at best.” Dorothea lays back down beside him and flicks him on the nose.

He crinkles his now sore nose at her while pushing her hand away. “Shit happens.”

She’s on her side facing him, her long dark hair fanning out and blending into the dock, as she frowns slightly. “Why?” She asks.

“I made a list,” Sylvain says. He ticks each bullet off on a finger. “He was there. Sometimes, I’m a bad person. I missed him.”

Dorothea mulls it over. “There’s a lot to unpack here.”

“So, maybe we shouldn’t.”

“But, I’m curious about the second one,” she insists. When Sylvain doesn’t respond she talks for him. “Here, let me make a guess. You use sex to get things.”

“I’m not following.”

“It’s simple,” she says even though it’s really not. “You use sex to get things. I mean, so do I, but I’m more of a jewelry and expensive clothes type of gal.”

“I can buy my own jewelry, thank you very much,” Sylvain says it like a joke, but he squirms anyways. He still doesn’t really understand, but it feels too familiar and he doesn’t like that.

“You don’t get things from it, at least not tangible literal physical things, but it’s still transactional, isn’t it, Sylvain?” She waits for him to not answer and when he doesn’t, she goes on. “What do you get from it then? Companionship? Conquest? A moment of reprieve?”

The summer’s air is too hot and it’s only growing hotter. He grinds his teeth, thinking about how he wishes he was swimming instead.

Dorothea doesn’t reach over to comfort him. She’s not that type. She doesn’t stop pushing him either, but she does it gently. She does it with a honeyed-tongue and soft, understanding eyes.

“I get it, Sylvain,” she says, and he knows that she does. “You sleep with people the same way you fight on the battlefield.”

“And what’s that like?” There’s a bitterness stuck in his throat. He doesn’t know how to get it out, but Dorothea steps past it without pause.

“You fuck like you’re trying to die,” she says it and it hurts. It hurts him because it’s true. It hurts her because she knows that feeling intimately.

“Well,” Sylvain says. He’s trying to think of a joke. A tension diffuser. He comes up short. “Fuck.”

“So,” Dorothea ignores the way his words fizzle out. “Why does sleeping with Dimitri make you a bad person?”

Sylvain laughs and answers truthfully, “I don’t want Felix to like him more than me.”

Dorothea stares at him, and then she laughs too. “You’re so stupid.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“I’m trying to trace your thought process here...“

“I’m prone to overcomplicating things,” he tries to explain.

She shakes her head. “Sylvie, you are not as complex a riddle as you think you are.”

Sylvain laughs again. “Why are you so mean to me?”

She smiles and Sylvain loves how pretty she is when she smiles. She reaches over and pinches his cheek. “Perhaps we’re too much alike,” Dorothea says. “And I’m prone to disliking myself, but so are you.”

“I love you,” Sylvain tells her earnestly and grins when she flushes in embarrassment.

“Hush,” she says while covering her blushing face with her hair.

Sylvain reaches over to push it back. He smiles appreciatively when she peeks out at him.

“Sylvie,” she sits up out of nowhere.

Sylvain turns so he’s propped up on one elbow. “What?”

“You hate women?” she sounds unsure of whether she’s saying a fact or asking a question.

“Ah,” Sylvain says. “You got me there. It’s complicated, okay? Crests and–“

“Hush,” she presses two fingers to his lips. “Do you like women?” She sees how he grimaces at her question and she waves it off. “Come on, you know how I am. I’m bisexual and that’s–“

“Why does everyone keep wanting to have this conversation with me,” he groans and turns on his stomach.

Dorothea laughs. “Who else was there?”

“Ingrid is _so_ nosey,” Sylvain complains directly into the wood.

“Quick aside note, if she ever does decide to go the pussy route–“

“You can’t say Ingrid and pussy in the same sentence!” Sylvain yells.

“Fine,” Dorothea huffs and Sylvain knows that she’s flipping her hair in agitation. “Women?”

“Nah.”

“Guys?”

Sylvain sticks his hand out in a thumbs up.

Dorothea sighs and Sylvain turns his head to see her standing to leave. “You _really_ need to start taking care of yourself,” she says while dusting her skirt off.

“What do you mean?” Sylvain asks even though he knows the answer.

“I mean,” she says with a firm finality, “that you need to stop being a whore, talk to the people you love, and learn even the tiniest bit of self-preservation.”

Sylvain sits up. “You are _so_ mean to me,” he says even if he can’t argue.

“Well, that’s because I love you,” Dorothea tells him while pressing a kiss to his forehead. “But I can’t take care of you, and you can’t take care of me. Not all the time. Not completely.”

Sylvain touches the place she had kissed him. “Dorothea,” his voice is heavy with a bittersweet love. He adores her, he really does, and somehow even though it’s been years he can’t help but be surprised that the feeling is returned. When he looks at her he can see affection in her eyes, but there’s exhaustion too. He worries about her as well.

“We’re fighting Edelgard soon,” he states simply.

Dorothea fits her face into a neutral mask, but Sylvain can see the places it cracks. “I know,” she says.

“I’m sorry we stole you away from The Empire.”

“You didn’t steal me,” she argues stubbornly.

Sylvain smiles slightly. “We stole you a little bit.”

Dorothea bites her lip as she shifts her hair over her shoulder and start finger combing through it nervously. “Do you think that they’ll come to an agreement? In the parlay. Do you think that Dimitri and Edel–“ her voice breaks and she clears her throat. “Pardon me. Do you think they’ll sort it out?”

She already knows the answer, but Sylvain shakes his head anyways. “She wouldn’t be a good leader if she gave up now. You know that.”

And Dorothea does. “I’ll be fine,” she tells him.

“I’ll take care of you,” Sylvain insists. “I promise, okay? I’ll take care of you.”

* * *

This is a list of ways Sylvain learned that it wasn’t okay to like boys.

1.

That time when Felix asked to hold his hand and Sylvain complied even though he knew they were too old for it. They had gone to the market to pick up some things for Sylvain’s mother. The trip was nothing special, other than Felix being spooked by a dark alleyway, and Sylvain accidentally dropping his piece of custard bread on the ground.

Sylvain was smart enough to figure out the rules of when to touch and where, and he knew that as soon as his house was in sight that he would let go of Felix’s hand. Sylvain didn’t account for the unexpected, however, and he probably should’ve.

It was dark by the time they returned to the Gautier residence, and uncharacteristically of him, his father had decided to meet the two of them half-way. As soon as he heard his father’s booming voice call out to them Sylvain dropped Felix’s hand like it would burn him, and the two of them waved awkwardly to the approaching figure.

His father didn’t say anything, at least not verbally. He had a look though. The one that conveyed “We’ll talk later.” They ate dinner and the food was surprisingly spicy enough for Felix’s liking, although the dessert far too sweet. Felix was to spend the night, and in the morning, Glenn would return from his northern trip as a young knight in training and the two of them would leave.

Before Sylvain could escape upstairs his father beckoned him to go on a walk. The two of them circled the Gautier estate as his father gave his brief lecture on what it means to be a man. The responsibilities that Sylvain held. The expectations that the Gautier name placed on his shoulders.

“How do you think a General of Sreng would react if he saw his enemy approaching hand in hand with some boy?”

2.

There was the time when he was fourteen and his mother planned to take him and Miklan to the opera. Sylvain hadn’t known what to expect, he had seen a handful of local plays, but nothing as grand as the affair his mother was preparing them for. She described the general plot of the piece and the ways the individual actors breathed life into the story.

Sylvain was excited. He liked art and he liked stories. He liked the way that plays followed a format. He liked the logistical structure of it all.

Miklan was less so. By this time, Sylvain had unraveled the riddle of Miklan and came to the conclusion that he was a shithead, so he tried not to pay much attention to his older brother. 

Sylvain focused on asking his mother about her favorite performances. He wanted to hear her describe the theaters from lands far away.

Miklan laughed. “Ma, since when did I get a sister?” he asked.

Sylvain ignored him. He was good at brushing away the cruelties of his brother at that point. Sylvain asked his question again, about the acoustics of the chapel his mother visited twenty years ago.

His mother pursed her lips in the way he knew meant she was holding back a smile. “It is a little bit funny, Sylvain. I would have loved a daughter to talk about this stuff with.”

It was harder to stay composed when the teasing came from someone other than his brother.

“It’s just the opera,” Sylvain said. “It sounds,” he tried to think of the right word. _Cool_ wasn’t it. _Beautiful_ was also lacking. “Ethereal,” Sylvain landed on. “It sounds ethereal.”

This time she didn’t bother to hold back her laugh and it clanked loudly against Miklan’s own cruel chortle. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” she said. “It’s just a bit silly. Ethereal. I would have adored a daughter with that vocabulary. Watch out now before we give your hand away to some burly prince.”

3.

Ironically enough, the time when Sylvain was sixteen and kissed his first boy. It was early fall and there was a rush to harvest the final crops before the frost began to dust the landscape. Sylvain was often searching for things to busy his mind at that time and had taken to riding horseback throughout the more rural areas outside his hometown.

He was sixteen and there was a boy who waved while he rode past. Probably a hired laborer, he was tending to the fields, and yet surprisingly leisurely in his posture. When Sylvain rode back to town he had waved again. The next day he followed the same route and met the same wave and grinning dirt speckled face. On his way home he slowed his horse to a trot and smiled widely at the boy.

He was a teenager. Close to his age Sylvain was pretty sure. It could’ve gone a year or two in either direction.

“Don’t ya got work to do?” The boy asked him.

Sylvain shook his head. “Not really.”

“Wanna help with mine then? Since you’re not busy?”

Sylvain laughed. It wasn’t even a pick-up line. He was pretty sure that this kid with his short brown hair and lazy voice just didn’t want to do it all on his own. “Are you being paid for the work?” Sylvain asked.

“Yeah. Why else would I be out here?”

“Will I get paid for the work?”

“Nah, but I’m a fun conversationalist. What difference does it make anyways? It’s not like you’re doing much of anything.”

Sylvain jumped down from his horse and tied him to the fence. “You’re a liar. You’re a terrible conversationalist.” He stretched his arms over his head. “But also, you’re right. I’m not doing much of anything.”

Sylvain learned that his name was Adam. His dad was also a laborer but working a few fields down. They were gonna start up north and then travel down south to follow the harvest weather. Sylvain learned that Adam didn’t hate working on farms, but he also didn’t like to work too hard. Sylvain thought the contradiction was funny and he helped him for the rest of the plot.

When they were done and the sun was more towards the horizon than the top of the sky, Adam asked if he wanted some water. Sylvain followed him to a faucet behind a shed and they took turns drinking from it.

“Hey,” Adam said with the same lazy grin.

“What?”

And Adam pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth. And Sylvain laughed, and Adam laughed too. Sylvain went to try and kiss him again, but Adam stopped him by holding a finger to his lips. _Shh._

With a cautious glance around the area Adam checked to make sure they were in the clear before pulling Sylvain by the hand into the safety of the shed.

That’s how Sylvain learned that if he was going to kiss boys, that he would have to be sneaky about it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. starting at "This is a list of ways Sylvain deals with jealousy" until the end of the list it talks about sylvain having issues with hypersexuality and him using sex as a form of self harm. nothing explicit!  
> 2\. starting at "This is a list of ways Sylvain learned that it wasn’t okay to like boys" shows nonexplicit homophobia. again, nothing crazy but there are remarks that show how sylvain internalized homophobia. both 1/2 show homophobia from his family where he's told by both his mother and father how to act like a ~man~ also miklan's there. it ends at "3.Ironically enough, the time when Sylvain was sixteen and kissed his first boy." and is then much softer
> 
> Ah chapter 2 ya know. I have chapter 3 planned out and I hope to have it up in the next few weeks! Try and... get stuff wrapped up. Have Sylvain learn to take care of himself. Maybe get a smooch who knows. kjsdfnjsdk sorry it's Sylvain smashing Dimitri. They are not going to be a relationship and it's still a sylvix fic! 
> 
> My twitter can be found [here](https://twitter.com/biheretic) as well as curiouscat and all that. If there's any questions abt how I decided to set things up or my thought process around stuff feel free to ask bc I put way too much intentionality in the way this is presented fdkjgngdkf


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